Future's Past
by alilit72
Summary: Caught in a temporal displacement, Com. Riker and Lt. Yar must fit into the past, without negatively impacting the future. Now COMPLETE and re-edited, with new material. Rated T for language and violence. Please R & R!
1. Chapter 1

_This series expands on the relationship between Riker and Lt. Natasha Yar. In Season One, they seemed to transform overnight from stiffly formal to casual and friendly. This story begins just after "Datalore", but before "Angel One"._

_The series is rated T for language, plus a few adult and violent situations. If you've seen it before, it originally was listed under an "M" rating until I understood that bad language doesn't necessarily relegate stories to "M"-land. There are spoilers for some elements of TNG's first season._

_Some constructive suggestions to flesh this out more were very appreciated! Thank you for your feedback, and please let me know what you think of the rewrite. _

_The TNG characters listed herein aren't mine. While some locations named are real places, I've made up the names of others. Non-TNG characters also are entirely fictional, and similarities to anyone real are unintentional. _

* * *

**Future's Past, Part 1**

* * *

**Com. William Riker's personal log, Monday, April 23, 2007**

_Even after five weeks of being stranded here, it's still difficult to get used to the noise. This is a loud century._

_A neighbor revs up his motorcycle every weekday morning at around 0500 hours, which is fine when I need to wake for my new job. As he's driving out of his parking space, he opens the throttle a few times and shakes the apartment windows before finally leaving. It's as if he's telling everyone that he works for a living, and that they need to wake up and do the same._

_Tasha is a light sleeper—at best—and that motorcycle always rouses her. She's only been home for a few hours by then, and usually can't get back to sleep. Rather than toss and turn as the apartment illuminates at daybreak, she gets up and walks to the end of the block to purchase a newspaper, which has become a primer about the place we now live._

_I would be sleeping in. But she never does, mostly because the upstairs neighbors wake one hour later, and they make more racket than Ten Forward revelers on their wildest evenings. _

_We've got their weekday routine down: At 0600, their alarm blares several times until someone finally shuts it off, and then BOOM, mother jumps out of bed to rouse her three children. They all fight over the toilet, the sink, the shower, and which television program to broadcast to the entire building. There's more screaming and running that rattles our ceiling. Mother yells from the time she wakes up, and continues as she goads them down the stairs, directly past our apartment and then out of the building. _

_Tasha and I are restless and frustrated, wondering how we came to be here, and how we can get back to the place and time where we belong: The USS Enterprise, 357 years in the future._

_We're out of our element. We're sleeping on a floor, but at least we're inside. We have a place to stay, and the means to make a living. In the 21st century, that means something. _

_But we still don't know why we're here, or how long that's going to be._

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, Stardate 41242.5, Calendar year 2364**

In a quieter time when things made sense, Commander William Riker and Lt. Natasha Yar had been aboard the _USS Enterprise_, walking through the corridors. As the ship warped through space, its engines and artificial gravity emitted a gentle vibration that they rarely noticed, anymore.

The main corridors were busy with crewmembers heading wherever their duties took them, and extra-crowded with 8-year-olds heading toward Engineering for their class tour. Hoping to avoid the corridor jam so they'd arrive on time to a personnel review, both officers sought a deserted shortcut, a tertiary corridor leading past the ship's Holodecks.

Riker and Yar weren't thinking consciously about where they were. They were focused instead on where they were going. The senior officers were chatting, making the kind of small talk that gets officers from one place to another without seeming like gossip or forced civility.

Having grown up in a seismically active area, Will Riker was very attuned to vibrations and jolts. He could feel an earthquake before most were aware of it, and knew when the ship's motion changed even slightly. Consequently, he detected the change before either of them heard or saw it: A slight tap, barely detectible through his uniform boots, as if a small meteor had bounced harmlessly off the ship's hull.

The lights seemed to blink off. Before either officer could draw a breath to say anything, they were thrown violently to the left, expecting to impact the corridor wall. Instead, they stayed in motion and landed on another hard surface, barely half a second after they were jerked off their feet.

They had no time to prepare, and only Tasha Yar had taken the instinctive step of raising one arm to protect her head. As they landed one meter apart from each other, Riker's head snapped sideways and slammed against a hard surface. Dazed, he rolled onto his back, struggling to regain breath that had been knocked out of him by the impact. Cold, wet droplets were striking him from above, and a blinding, bright light pierced into his face.

Barely a meter away, Yar's fingers spread out across the rough, wet surface she now lay upon. Cold water rained down on her. She pushed herself upright, sitting on one hip and trying to ascertain her surroundings through racing, confused thoughts. As far as Yar knew, she was in a corridor aboard a starship warping through space. There was no plausible reason that she should be anyplace else.

_Why am I in the shower?_ she thought, blinking water out of her eyes as her fingers felt an unfamiliar surface. She was not in the shower. _Maybe this is a Holodeck problem,_ she thought. _But what the hell am I doing in the Holodeck?_

"Computer, exit," Yar called out, noticing for the first time that Riker was beside her, rolling from his back and onto his side about a meter away from her. She saw no one else nearby. "Sir, are you all right?"

"Yeah," he replied, wincing. His head was throbbing, but he was thinking along the same lines as his security chief. He sat up and looked around, but it was hard to see through rainy darkness that lay outside reach of a light situated above them. "Why are we in the Holodeck?"

"I don't know, but it must be malfunctioning," she said. She reached to tap her combadge so she could call the bridge, but the badge was no longer attached to her uniform. "My combadge is gone. Computer, emergency exit!" she said again, louder and more firmly. But nothing changed.

The temperature was uncomfortably cold, and it didn't help that they were sitting in a puddle of frigid water with a bright light situated almost directly over head, as blinding as an interrogation light. An ominous impression occurred to Yar that they had been captured and were about to be questioned and tortured.

"Are we in custody?" she muttered, realizing that her phaser was securely affixed to her uniform. _If we were prisoners, they would have taken the phaser, too,_ she thought. She was completely perplexed: They were sitting on pavement as cold water—it felt like rain—poured down on them. It made no sense, at all.

"What the hell is going on?" she muttered.

"We need to get out of the rain," Riker said, struggling to his feet and sensing he'd be sore from the fall he'd just taken. He also tried to get the computer's attention, but his emergency codes yielded no response.

A concrete wall stood about two meters away. Its height was enough that they couldn't see through the dark rain how tall it was. But as they looked to their right through the rain, they could see a soft glow emanating from beneath an overhang. Doors, maybe, Riker mused.

He recognized something else sitting on the pavement adjacent to the overhang: It looked like a replica of an old-style, petrol-burning ground car, just sitting outside in the rain, parked along a curb that ran alongside the walkway that he and Yar were walking across.

Petrol automobiles were few and far between, typically stored in museums where they could be displayed away from the damaging elements. This one looked like the real thing, exhaust pipe and all. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble, even attaching a license tag on its backside and what looked like several, well-worn slogan stickers adorning the rear window and bumper. _Who would leave a classic vehicle to rust in the rain? _Riker thought.

* * *

They walked – quickly – splashing through puddles toward the awning 20 meters away. The warm glow of lights came through several sets of glass-paned doors that didn't open when both officers stood in front of them. Yar tugged on the door handles until she found one that was unlocked, and they stepped inside, hoping they weren't walking into a trap.

Since they hadn't expected to need tricorders while walking through the relative safety of the _Enterprise,_ neither officer had one with them. So they had no idea what to expect before they walked inside. The interior of the building was warm but anciently spacious, larger than the _Enterprise'_s biggest shuttle bay. The huge room seemed to be a center for a number of shops and restaurants around its edges, though all looked to be closed.

A large kiosk labeled "INFORMATION" was directly in front of them, in the center of the great room. No one was posted at the information booth, but pockets lined the counter's lower exterior, and they were stuffed with what looked like old-time pamphlets and magazines.

They walked toward the kiosk, wiping water from their faces and hands with their equally soaked uniform sleeves. Everything about the building seemed to echo, and that made Lt. Yar very uncomfortable. Their boot steps radiated throughout the large room, and instantly she wondered who might be watching them and what they might be thinking. She hated feeling like a target.

Several other people were inside, but each appeared to be walking in different directions, heading someplace else. They wore coats appropriate for the weather outside the building, plus equally ancient-appearing clothing, and they didn't seem concerned about two drenched Starfleet officers standing at a closed, information kiosk.

"Missouri," Yar said, trying to calm herself down by reading one of the pamphlet titles and finger-combing her soaked, short hair off her forehead. She'd heard of Missouri, but couldn't remember what it was. "What is this, sir?"

"A region in North America, on Earth," Will replied. He pulled a map from one holder, and she pulled a larger magazine from a holder nearby. "What the hell are we doing here?"

"Sir, is that the date on the front cover?" Yar said, turning the magazine around so he could see the cover of the magazine, which said VISIT KC, Fall/Winter 2006. "What does KC stand for?"

Riker's eyes grew wide, but he nodded. "Maybe that's—it doesn't make any sense," he said. "But an automobile was parked outside. It's consistent. Either that, or I hit my head harder than I thought."

"Someone's playing bad joke on us," Yar said, her sense of urgency merging with irritation with whomever or whatever so rudely interrupted the plans of two senior officers. "Computer, emergency exit, Code 009Y!"

Nothing happened, other than her voice echoing back to them.

"We've already tried that with my codes," he said, not even glancing sideways at her. But she was looking at him and noticed something.

"Sir, you still have your combadge."

Riker tapped his badge. "Riker to _Enterprise_," he said, and he knew instantly that he'd get no response. The characteristic clicks made by the combadge weren't present when it was touched by his hand. It was inactive, dead.

"At least they can track us with this," he remarked. Even if the badge wasn't functioning, it had a built-in homing pattern that was only detectible by Starfleet sensors. It was designed that way so they could avoid detection by enemy forces.

"I wonder what happened to mine," she said. "Is it just us here, or are there others from the ship?"

"We were the only ones in that corridor," Riker replied, and nodded to the map he held. "I think this is Kansas City."

She stared at him. "What's Kansas City?"

"It's a city in North America."

"You think we're in Kansas City, sir?" she asked, now realizing that must be what "KC" stood for. "That was a quick trip from deep space to Earth."

"And a quick trip back in time," he added. "This says it's 2006. No, it's 2007, actually" he nodded toward a calendar posted in the Kiosk, turned to the page denoting March 2007.

"Yeah, I suppose there's a big difference between 2006 and 2007," she said, and that remark earned a sharp glare from her commanding officer.

"Lose the smartass attitude, lieutenant," he said.

"Sir, this is ridiculous!" she countered. Impatient and frustrated, she wasn't waiting for permission to speak freely. They had no time for this. "We're going to be late for the personnel review."

"Based on what I'm seeing here, we're 350 or so years too early for the review," he replied, grabbing another pamphlet. "So we've got plenty of time."

Even when she was irritated, Natasha Yar was more curious about their surroundings than she was about a bunch of guidebooks. She wasn't entirely convinced that Will Riker wasn't in on this. They had been serving together aboard the _Enterprise_ for six months by then, so she knew enough about his reputation as a jokester to be suspicious.

But this prank wasn't funny. Her left elbow ached from landing hard on the pavement outside. At least her uniform sleeve wasn't ripped. Leaving him at the kiosk, she walked around all sides of it. Her boot steps echoed against the building's marble floor, making her cringe inwardly. That echo would make potential assailants difficult to track.

"What are you doing?" Will muttered, keeping his voice low so it didn't echo as much.

"Just looking around," she replied. Then one possible reason suddenly occurred to her. "Do you think it might be Q, sir?"

"Q would have shown up to gloat by now, if it were," Riker said.

She wasn't convinced. _Q still might show up, and probably ship me off to a penalty box somewhere for running my mouth, again. This is a bad joke ._ . . she thought, and forced herself to repress a knee-jerk irritation that often got her into trouble because she tended to verbalize her frustrations.

"What is this place, anyway?" she asked, forcing herself to go with it for awhile. She knew it was in her best interest to avoid hacking off the first officer. _Just play along,_ she thought.

"It's a transit station of some kind," he replied, nodding toward a departure timetable posted on an opposite wall. Then he found a pamphlet bearing the same name and logo on the wall. "Amtrak . . . oh, these are trains! It's a station for trains."

"What are they trained to do?" Tasha asked absently, not comprehending what he'd said. She was focusing instead on a man walking without much purpose across the main hall. He wore a uniform — possibly security patrolling the building. He didn't seem concerned with anything, biding his time until his shift ended.

"No, a train was an steam or petrol-fueled engine designed to pull multiple cars on two metal tracks," Riker replied, forcing himself not to snicker at her mis-translation. "They were everywhere in this time. They carried people, freight, you name it."

"But only where the tracks are, correct?" she noted.

"Yeah, as far as I know. According to that sign, this is Union Station."

"Maybe we're in New York City," she remarked.

"That's Grand Central Station you're probably thinking about," he said. Even in the 24th century, Grand Central still operated as a ground and shuttle transit port. The historic building had been completely renovated and reinforced.

"I thought New York had a Union Station."

"Every large city in North America has a Union Station," he replied, then remembered more snippets of United States history. "Well, except the Southern states."

"Of course, sir," she parroted, going with it, though she had no clue what he was talking about. She hoped this wasn't going to be a test scenario to find out how much she remembered from the Earth Civ classes that were required by the Academy. History had not been her thing in school, especially regarding a place to which she had little connection.

A large, face clock hung from the upper frame of the door connecting both rooms. From the darkness outside, plus the lack of a crowd in the station, Yar figured the time was 0445, and not 1645.

"That clock says it's 0445," Yar said. "So the sun should come up in two hours, and maybe by then the rain will have stopped." He nodded in reply, and she noticed a rising lump on the right side of his head. "That looks painful, sir," she added, and suddenly had her doubts that he was leading the prank charge on this one. Even someone like Will Riker was unlikely to have taken blows to the head just to pull a joke on someone.

"Yeah, I must have done that when we hit the sidewalk," he replied.

* * *

Within 10 minutes, Riker found a bench near the entrance to another large room adjoining the first one. They began perusing the stack of pamphlets they'd collected. Yar flipped through some of them, but they looked more like vacation suggestions than directions for people who were lost. She wasn't interested in art galleries, shopping or fountains. She only wanted to know how they could get back to the _Enterprise,_ where they belonged.

Not having a tricorder to analyze their surroundings was a concern, and not only because she wouldn't be able to scan behind inaccessible areas. She hadn't seen anything yet that seemed overly threatening, other than the fact that they were here in the first place. But she had several advantages that many Starfleet officers didn't possess: A hardscrabble upbringing largely devoid of technology, and excellent training through Starfleet Academy.

Plus, she remembered lessons from an Academy security instructor, who endorsed that students learn to read situations without the use of tricorders. Commander Cain was the quintessential hard-ass, a tactical combat instructor who hated excuses. He didn't take anything from anybody, and his tirades tended to include colorfully profane language that wasn't often heard in proper Starfleet circles. Tasha developed a tremendous amount of respect for him, and was moved to learn from Captain Picard that Cain had recommended her for posting aboard the _Enterprise._

And now, Cain's lessons about tricorders were ringing as true as the memories of what he told her class. _Tricorders are great little gadgets, but they make you lazy! _he'd said. _You need to learn to work without them. What if you're stuck without a tricorder? If playing with handhelds is all you know how to do, you'll be in a world of shit! You've got to use your five senses, plus that sixth sense that'll keep you out of trouble. If you're staring at a machine, you're deviating attention away from your surroundings, which is where your attention should be in the first place._

Lt. Yar knew from Earth Civ classes that the flags hanging directly above both benches were those of the United States. But until now, she'd never seen an actual flag, before.

She stared at the ceilings of both rooms, imagining that anyone who needed to clean that ornate décor had their work cut out for them. At the other side of the station, a restaurant and café opened up, and received its first customer: The officer who had been patrolling, earlier.

"I'm going to walk around," she said to Riker as she stood up. He nodded but said nothing in response. Riker was inwardly glad that she'd chosen to pace the halls instead of fidgeting on the seat beside him.

He'd hoped to address her lack of patience after they finished personnel reviews. Her impulsiveness was going to be a problem if she didn't get a handle on it. Though he knew she'd led multiple security teams, she was new to management, and it showed. Leadership was different than management, and he had a series of management exercises for her, hoping she would benefit from them.

He wondered if her impatience was a reflection of her relative inexperience with being in charge of other people, and wanting to appear to those people that she knew what she was doing. She wanted to be right about everything so her personnel would trust her decisions, and not doubt her orders. But it didn't work that way. Even solid leaders needed that shake-down period.

She needed to be patient enough to learn that. He'd been meaning to sit down and speak with her about that. If they were stuck here for any length of time, they undoubtedly would have the chance for that long-put-off chat.

For now, though, he wanted her to walk it off.

She was glad for that opportunity. It seemed like a waste of time for him to be reading vacation pamphlets when they should be checking out their surroundings.

* * *

More people were arriving, walking in the same doors that both officers had strode through a couple of hours earlier. Now those doors and the windows above them were backlit with the coming dawn. Yar could see that the weather outside still was cloudy, but evidently it was no longer raining because people were walking inside with dry clothes.

She could smell real coffee brewing from the nearby restaurant, saw through the side windows that patrons were consuming enormous amounts of food. It was practically dripping off the edges of the oversized plates. No wonder so many people are overweight, here, she mused. But that coffee smelled good, much better than what came out of _Enterprise_ replicators.

She watched someone emptying coins out of the open front of a meter-tall, metal box, and then stacking folded papers inside the box. He placed one of the folded papers into a slot that held it to the clear front door, then closed the panel and left.

There were three, similar boxes. Two of them were locked, holding news that didn't rotate: _The Kansas City Star _and_ USATODAY_. As Yar began walking away, an overcoat-wearing man walked past her, stuffed two coins into one of the machines, opened the door, pulled out a folded stack of papers, then shut the door and left with his papers.

Yar tried to open the door, but it had locked again. Next to the coin slots, a sign said that a "single copy" of _The Kansas City Star _cost 50 cents. So she needed two coins to get her own stack of papers that looked to bear more information about where they were, and what was happening.

Irritated, she kept moved on down the line of free piles of advertising for houses and jobs, and then found a stacks of thick, yellow books that weren't locked up. She perused one, and opted to take it back to Com. Riker. The alphabetized book appeared to have a lot of citywide information, maps, and directions.

"What's that?" Riker asked, nodding to the book she held as she sat down beside him.

"Looks like a cross-referenced city directory," she said.

"Where'd you find it?"

"There's a stack of them by the other set of doors," she said. "A food station is open, but they're still using money."

"If they're still using money, how did you get that directory?"

"I think it was free," she replied.

"Nothing's free in a society that uses money," Riker observed. "We'll need to find some."

"I've got a few ideas," Yar replied. "There are self-serve machines here that vend items for money. There's got to be a way to open them up."

"You're suggesting we steal the money?" he looked at her.

"You just said we need money to get by while we're here," she replied. "Raiding coins out of a non-guarded machine is not going to be a problem, as long as we don't get reported to the authorities. I can cut into the side of the machine with the phaser."

"Well, it wouldn't be my first choice, but if that's our only option, that's what we'll need to do," he said. "We didn't exactly come here prepared to deal with any of this."

"How much money do we need, sir?"

"We'll need to purchase food, and we'll need clothing," he said, nodding toward the directory. "We don't exactly blend in, here. There's a shopping center nearby, but based on what I've read in these pamphlets, it's expensive to buy anything, there."

"We don't need anything fancy," she replied. "I just don't want to be cold and wet."

"Exactly," he said. "There's a used clothing shop about 15 blocks away, to the south. If we use this book as a guide, and this map to get us there, we can start from there."

"It's too crowded in here to open these machines," she remarked. "I watched someone remove money from the coin storage area and re-stock the machine with papers. If he's removed the money already, I don't think there will be enough left to warrant the risk."

"What was being sold in the machines, again?"

"News, I think," she replied.

"Newspapers?"

"It looked like a stack of papers. I've never seen one, before."

"How much did they cost?"

"Fifty cents," she replied. "It said any coin combination, except pennies."

"What's a penny?"

"I have no idea."

"Do you know anything about the 21st century currency?"

"No, economic history wasn't exactly my strongest subject at the Academy," Yar replied. "We'll figure it out. I watched someone purchase one, and he used two coins. So if it's 50 cents to buy a newspaper, he must have used two, 25-cent pieces."

* * *

The station's echoes surrounded everything, now. Hundreds of people seemed to arrive all at once. The other stores opened. Two people went behind the counter at the information kiosk. Many of the new arrivals were eating as they walked. One man stuffed an entire pastry into his mouth and seemed to swallow it without chewing as he hurried past through the station.

"He'll be hurting this afternoon," Riker remarked. Yar just shook her head. The gluttony she'd already witnessed was, up until now, unimaginable to her. People actually were throwing uneaten food into refuse cans throughout the station.

More surprising to her was that no one seemed too concerned about all that uneaten food. There was plenty of food everywhere, and that was evidenced by the higher than normal numbers of people who were overweight. Until Tasha Yar was a teenager, she hadn't known that it was possible for people to have too much to eat. Throwing food away was unthinkable.

"You folks OK?"

They looked up to see a man standing next to them. His uniform patches bore out that he was, in fact, a police officer. A weapon was holstered on his right hip, and what appeared to be a brick-sized communicator (and probably just as heavy) on his other hip. Yar wondered how his pants stayed up beneath the weight of an enormous gut that hung over that already loaded-down belt.

"Yes, sir," she said to the officer, and Riker almost fell off the bench when she smiled at the officer and said, "Just biding our time until our train comes through."

"Oh! You gonna be in town for long?"

"No, just passing through," she said, just going with it, not that it mattered to her. She was certain they'd be back with the _Enterprise_, soon. She kept waiting for the security officer to say something about her and Riker's similar mode of dress, but evidently he didn't recognize them as uniforms because he was more focused on giving Union Station's visitors something to do.

"There are some free exhibits opening up down that hall in about an hour if you're still around," he said, nodding toward a series of roped-off rooms down the hall from where they sat.

"Yeah, we saw the promotional signs for them," she said, nodding in that direction. "Thanks!"

"You bet," and the officer ambled on.

She had walked past the signs earlier during her reconnaissance, taking note that the exhibit seemed to be about the history of trains. She neither knew nor cared about the history of trains.

"That was smooth," Riker remarked after the officer was out of earshot.

"Thank you, sir."

"Tasha," he said after a few seconds.

"Yes, sir?"

"Please tell me that none of our security officers are that clueless."

"I hope not," she replied. "He would never pass our agility test."

* * *

**Union Station in Kansas City, Missouri, Earth, March 20, 2007**

More than three hours passed with no contact from the _Enterprise_. There were no indications why they were in the early 21st century or why they were back on Earth, instead of halfway across the galaxy where they belonged.

Riker and Yar plotted their next move. They had considered biding their time, since this was a public transit station and they were inside, out of the elements. They could wait this out, or they could venture out. Initially, they opted to wait, to stay in their present location in case a rescue party emerged at their arrival location. But after Yar found a "no loitering" sign posted near the front doors, they opted to leave before any long-term presence was questioned.

The rain had stopped outside, and sunlight began filtering through the windows and into the station. With Riker perusing the yellow book, Yar walked back outside the station to inspect the exterior of the building, passing by the Information Kiosk, where a worker had arrived and posted the date: Tuesday, March 20, 2007.

Folding her arms against the morning chill, she examined the spot where she and Riker dropped to the pavement in the middle of the night. There was no sign of any portal through which they came. She pressed her hands against the cold, concrete walls of the building, but they were solid, unyielding, and did not betray any energy force activity.

She walked around the lot, peering beneath cars and looking alongside the nearby curb. She located numerous, soggy cigarette butts smashed against the wet pavement, something she hadn't seen since she was a child. But she never did find her combadge, and now hoped that it was lying in the corridor near the Holodecks. That could be our way back, she mused. If her crewmates found the combadge assigned to her, they would know she was missing. If they tracked Riker's badge, they could be located and rescued.

Part of her still was convinced she and Com. Riker were stuck in some Holodeck program gone amuck. When she found a loose piece of gravel on the pavement, she glanced around to see who might be watching, and then threw it as far as she could. She hoped it would sizzle off a holodeck wall, so they'd at least know they were still on the _Enterprise._

But the rock struck the windshield of a car parked in the middle of the lot, instead. She quickly ducked back inside the station. The last thing they needed was to be in trouble in a century they knew little about, and began experiencing that sinking regret that she'd learned enough in her history courses to do well on the tests, but it would do her little good in scenarios like these.

"You've got a look on your face," Riker remarked when she returned to the bench.

"Sir?" she replied innocently, even though she knew what he was talking about.

"What happened?"

"I threw a rock to see if it would trigger the holodeck walls," she said. "And it didn't."

He looked up at her. "What did you hit, instead?"

"Someone's automobile."

"Not good," he shook his head. "We don't need to be arrested. The jails are full of drug addicts."

She swallowed an impulse to tell him that she'd been a drug addict when she was a child, but thought better of it. _At least I'm familiar with one aspect of this century,_ she thought.

But they both knew they had to leave. They didn't want to tempt arrest for loitering by any law enforcement officer, especially one whose gigantic gut made him look like he was 15 months pregnant.

They opted to focus on what they would need until they could figure out how to get back to their own time and place, or wait for a rescue. They needed warmer clothes, food and shelter. They knew money was still used in 2007, but had no idea where they'd find some. And they needed to find a restroom.

"They have separate toilets, here," she muttered as they approached the side corridor with restrooms and water fountains. What a complete waste of space, she thought, consistent with the rest of the building.

"I'll be right back," she said, and started walking into the men's room.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Will said, grabbing her arm.

"I'm checking the room before you go in there," she replied, somewhat shocked that he was even asking. "Regulations."

"I appreciate that, but I'm a big boy, and I'll be fine," he remarked, irritated.

They went into the separate bathrooms, and then emerged several minutes later. Lt. Yar had thoroughly perused her bathroom for threats and had considered raiding the paper towels until she realized she had no way to transport them. She glanced at herself in the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair so she looked somewhat less bedraggled.

Riker was waiting outside in the hall. "Ready to hit the town?"

She stared at him, not understanding the slang he'd just used. "Sir?"

"We're leaving the station," he said. "Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

**Future's Past, Part 2**

* * *

**Aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_**, 2364**

It wasn't like senior officers to arrive late for anything. Ensign Julio Barajas initially thought Lt. Yar and Com. Riker might have been held up in the hallway. He'd seen it happen, before—senior staff frequently were snagged by other officers needing something, or simply wanting to chat.

So he waited.

Barajas, a 25-year-old ensign from Acapulco, Mexico, on Earth, didn't believe anything too negative would come from his midyear personnel review. He'd been attentive to detail, improving his martial arts rating and taking advanced mathematics courses to improve his tactical abilities. That had been his lowest scoring skill, and he'd worked hard to improve it, earning a rating twice that of his previous levels.

His patience could use work, though, and he knew it. He wondered if both senior officers were testing that, right now. _Let's show up a little late,_ he imagined they were saying to each other, _see how long it takes before he jumps the gun and reports us late when he really needs to learn to be more patient. It's not his place to ask where we are._

But by 1120, five minutes after the scheduled review, he finally opted to ask their whereabouts to the computer. A lot could have happened in five minutes. He would rather be dinged for being impatient than be dinged for not raising a red flag when officers could be in trouble. Something really could be wrong.

"Computer," he said. "Locations of Lt. Yar and Commander Riker."

"Neither officer is aboard the _Enterprise_," the computer's dispassionate voice responded.

"_Mande?_"

Barajas was so surprised by the computer's answer that he'd unconsciously reverted to his native Spanish, then as quickly back to Standard. "Did their schedules change? They were supposed to meet me at 1115 hours for a personnel review."

"Neither officer is aboard the _Enterprise_."

"What happened?"

"Please refer all personnel questions to your immediate supervisor."

"Lieutenant Yar is my immediate supervisor!"

"Please refer all personnel questions to her immediate supervisor."

"Commander Riker is her immediate supervisor!"

"Please refer all personnel questions regarding senior staff to Captain Picard," the computer said.

"Are you kidding?" Barajas exclaimed. _An ensign going straight to the captain? That's a twice-over violation of chain of command. _Inwardly, though, he knew he needed to tell someone, and he would need to do it soon.

"That statement is not an appropriate query."

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, Earth, March 20, 2007**

The Greater Kansas City Metro telephone directory had proven invaluable, even if it had been free, and even if neither Will Riker nor Tasha Yar had ever used a telephone in their lives. They were way out of their element, seemingly stranded more than three centuries in their past with no plausible reason why, and no reason to believe that they would be whisked back to where they really belonged anytime soon.

With that in mind, they had opted to walk south on Main Street, toward a thrift shop that Riker had found listed in the book. He had a map, and a tentative plan to get by until they could be located and rescued.

But it was cold enough that they would need coats, and they needed to eat. More importantly, they needed money to obtain those things. Riker carried the phone book and a city map, since they had proven much more useful than the other items they found at Union Station, a mass-transit depot located just south of the city's downtown.

They stepped outside the station, and noticed the weather hadn't gotten much warmer than it had been when they fell to the sidewalk hours earlier. But at least it wasn't raining, anymore, and it was daylight.

According to the calendar they'd seen inside the station, it was March, and it felt like March. The rain-saturated ground still bore tan grass that looked more dead than dormant. The sunshine was chilly even to Riker, an Alaska native who had grown up in humidity-laden, frigid temperatures. Visitors to his _Enterprise_ cabin quickly found that out, because he'd programmed his cabin's environmental controls far below the ship's main settings.

Riker was very comfortable at 15 degrees Celsius. But the outside temperature here was slightly colder than that, and he knew he'd be numb with cold by the time they arrived at their destination. He suspected that Lt. Yar wasn't nearly as acclimated as he was. She didn't admit it immediately, but he could tell by how her shoulders locked up that she was chilled within 30 seconds.

It would be a longer walk for her, by a longshot—not that she would have admitted it. Riker suspected that she'd turn blue before she admitted she was too cold.

The sidewalk where they'd landed hours earlier was now dry, and still bore no sign of a portal. Yar looked once more for her combadge, and then shook her head.

"I think it's gone," she said. "I hope it's still on the _Enterprise_."

"You think we're no longer on the _Enterprise_?"

"I don't know where we are, sir," she replied. "We're not on a ship. The vibration is gone."

Riker nodded. "That, or the Holodeck's been upgraded considerably."

"If it was upgraded, I wasn't made aware of it, and it should have gone through me," Yar replied.

"It should have gone through both of us."

They left the sidewalk and crossed another paved area, this one separated by raised curbs and painted lines as a place for people to park their petrol vehicles. Until now, neither officer had seen a petrol vehicle actually operating, before. Now they were operating everywhere, weaving effortlessly past each other in patterns not unlike those that existed in the 24th century: Traffic tended to stay to the right.

As they were crossing the parking lot, a motorist pulled into the lot, seemingly intent on a parking spot nearby. But she still stopped for Riker and Yar, waving them past with a smile, then drove past behind them and pulled into the empty space denoted by painted patterns on the pavement.

_Was it really that easy?_ Riker thought. _I'd always thought life in the past was more complicated than this._

Aside from being petrol-fueled, it looked to both Starfleet officers that the ground cars operated much the same as some of the ground vehicles on Earth.

At the edge of the parking lot, four lanes of cars moved past the station, two lanes each moving in opposite direction and splitting off to circle around what looked like a drained pool that divided the road temporarily. Then the lanes merged again, with oncoming traffic passing within feet of traffic heading in the opposite direction. Only a pair of yellow lines separated the traffic, but in no way prevented motorists from striking each other if someone veered into the oncoming lane.

"I wonder what that's for?" Yar said, nodding toward the empty pool that created a roundabout for the road, which evidently had been designed around it. The frame was about a meter deep, with metal pipes emanating from the base of it. But there was no water in it.

"I think it's one of the fountains," Riker replied. "It's placement matches with photos I saw of it when it was operational. It must need to be serviced, or the cold weather must be too much for it. Maybe they drain it in the winter. But I think that's our street just beyond the fountain. Let's go."

"Wait, sir," she said, not moving from her vantage point at the edge of the parking lot.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm just watching the traffic and how it's moving," she observed. Cars that had been moving now slowed to a stop, and cross traffic that had been waiting to pass was allowed through. "How did those vehicles—how did those people _operating_ the vehicles know that they needed to stop and let the cross-traffic through?" she asked.

"I don't know," Riker said. "Those lights suspended overhead, perhaps."

"I think we should figure that out, before we attempt to walk across the street, sir," she said. "I suggest we wait to cross until someone else crosses, then follow that lead.

"Agreed," he replied.

They stood near the intersection and watched three cycles of traffic pass through before other pedestrians gathered at their corner to cross the street. As they waited, they noticed that half of the drivers passing through were talking on handheld, personal communicators held to their faces.

Yar's brows furrowed at something. "Sir, these vehicles can't be sophisticated enough for autopilot, but that man is reading a newspaper while he's driving!" she said.

"Yeah, they put their makeup on, too," a man wearing an overcoat and carrying a briefcase interjected. He stood beside them, waiting for the light to change so he could walk across the street, and didn't seem bothered by their relative ignorance of how things were in the Real World. "They yap on their cellphones, they text each other, they watch TV, everyone's doing everything but paying attention to driving. That's why I take the bus."

"How do they stay on the road if they aren't paying attention to it?" Riker asked, pretending he understood every term the man had just uttered.

"Miracles happen everyday," the man replied, and then he began walking across the street. Riker and Yar followed, noticing an illuminated, white figure on the light pole across the street. As they neared the opposite curb, a red, flashing hand appeared.

"That's the 'hurry up' light, I think," Riker remarked.

Both officers continued walking north, uphill. Yar folded her arms across her chest in a vain attempt to keep warm as they walked, but it didn't help much.

"If we walk faster, it'll help warm us up," Riker said.

* * *

They walked first on a sidewalk, and then on the grass. At Yar's insistence, both stayed several meters away from the edge of the road. Traffic moved steadily and rapidly, and vehicles wouldn't have time (nor the space) to swerve if one of them stumbled into their path. Traffic lights or not, she didn't trust any of the motorists. She'd seen too many who were navigating their vehicles while otherwise occupied with reading, talking on handheld communication devices, putting on makeup and eating.

"Sir, permission to speak freely," she said, out of the blue.

"Granted," he said.

"What scenario is this?"

He stopped walking. "You think it's a training exercise?"

"Yes, or a bad joke," she said, then stopped. She made a face when a bad odor reached both of them. "What is that smell?"

"I think it's from that grate," he nodded toward a street gutter.

"Probably the sewer," she muttered, and they started walking again. "Raw sewage. Just great."

"If you think someone's playing a joke on you, they're playing it on me, too," Riker said. "Just so you know, I didn't appreciate the insinuation, lieutenant."

"I knew you wouldn't," she said.

"Then why bring it up?"

"It was a valid question."

"You mean it's your so-called valid accusation," he said.

"Can you blame me, sir?"

"Not really, no," he replied. "I had wondered if you were playing a prank on me, and then it occurred to me that you aren't the type to do something like that. Then I considered that someone might have been playing a prank on you, to get you to lighten up, which you need to do—and you know it—and that I accidentally wound up being dragged into it."

"If that's the case, they'll be very, very sorry when I find out who did it."

"If that's the case, I would have been in on it," Riker replied. "And I'm not."

"Thank you for clarifying that, sir," she said. "So supposing this is an accident, what could have happened?"

"There was a tap right before the lights went out, and then we were tossed to the—," Riker began.

"What tap?"

"I felt a slight bump, as we were walking past the Holodecks," he continued.

"I didn't detect anything," Yar admitted, a bit disappointed that she hadn't felt it, herself.

"It was barely noticeable," he said. "Almost like a small earthquake."

"I've never been in an earthquake."

"I thought you graduated from the Academy," Riker remarked. "How did you live in San Francisco for four years and not go through an earthquake?"

"I didn't feel any of the small earthquakes that hit in the years I was there," she said. "I missed the last big one by one year."

"The 6-pointer in 2354?" Will said, a bit entertained. "That one rattled a few windows, but it wasn't a big one."

"How is a 6-pointer not a big one, sir?"

"I grew up in Alaska," he remarked. "We have 4.5-magnitude quakes every day. The reason it was so destructive in San Francisco was due to the poor soil composition in part of the city. Parts of the city sank because it was constructed on landfill, originally. Even with reinforcement, it will always sway with any moderate earthquake. The Plateau and Academy were reinforced before anything was constructed there."

"What's the biggest earthquake you've ever been in, sir?"

"We had an 8.1 when I was in grade school," he replied. "It threw me out of my seat, and I couldn't stand up to get out of the building. I thought the school would collapse, but it didn't. The walls cracked and the floors buckled, but the building stayed up long enough for everyone to evacuate. It was a newer building, and had been constructed to withstand a severe quake."

"That had to be awful," she remarked.

"It got my attention," he replied.

"So there was a small jolt on the ship," Yar said, continuing her investigation.

"It was a tap, not even a jolt," Riker said.

"That was the only sign that something might have been wrong, or it may have been something entirely unrelated," she kept talking. "A meteor, or debris in the travel path."

"The shields would have eradicated it before it struck the hull," Riker remarked.

"Even if there was a shield malfunction, it still doesn't explain why we're 300-some years in the past, and on Earth," she said. "The _Enterprise_ wasn't anywhere near Earth."

"Well, we probably won't find out what happened with the resources we have at our disposal, here," he said. "Neither of us has a tricorder, and I doubt anyone here would believe us if we told them what had happened."

"Not likely," she replied. "They'd probably have us arrested. You still have your combadge, so they can trace us."

"Hopefully they're checking that out as we speak," Riker said. "Listen, no matter what, we need to avoid any incidents. If this is, indeed, Earth's past, we need to be careful not to change the future."

"Yes, sir," she said.

"How cold are you?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

"Don't bullshit me," he said, bluntly calling her on it. If he was getting chilled, she had to be numb from the cold. "Your lips are turning blue."

"I'll be all right, sir," she replied. "It's not that far of a walk." _It's not like I have much of a choice, _she thought._ Either I keep going, or I start complaining and make this a longer trip for both of us. _

* * *

**Along Main Street, Kansas City, Missouri**

Riker and Yar finally were on a paved sidewalk, off the wet grass they'd walked across for a seemingly long time. Traffic wove on a curvy boulevard that cut through a hilly, green space. The park looked to have been there awhile—the roads were laid out around it, so evidently someone had put some thought into the environment long before it became fashionable to think about the environment.

They were approaching what appeared to be a fuel station for vehicles. Motorists had parked their cars alongside upright petrol stations and guided hoses into their vehicle's fueling ports. Then the drivers left their parked vehicles to go inside what looked like a small grocery market.

As Riker pondered what was happening at the fuel pumps, he noticed that Lt. Yar was no longer beside him. He turned around, and found her digging in a covered, metal refuse can located on the main sidewalk near the petrol station's driveway. She contorted her arm to fit through the side slot and feel around the contents inside. He could hear her rummaging around for something.

"What are you doing?" he asked. It wasn't going to help if they drew attention to themselves by being spotted digging through the garbage.

"Looking for a container that will work to hold money . . .these will work," she dug out several, wadded, plastic bags and a paper bag to put inside the plastic bag. Then she nodded toward a row of food and drink machines near the edge of the station's front wall.

"Vending machines," Yar said, leading their way walking across the parking lot. She ignored snickers from a motorist who was standing beside his car as both officers strode past in their matching uniforms. She could have cared less what anyone here thought of how she was dressed. But Riker was very conscious that their uniforms must look unusual to people who were more accustomed to jeans and t-shirts.

She stood in front of the series of machines that lined the front of the building, considering her options. The building housed what looked like a grocery, and it was doing brisk business. They both could see in the windows at around a dozen people milling around inside the store, grabbing food and drinks, then standing in line at a circular kiosk near the door.

Within a few seconds, she nodded toward the machine on the farthest right, and farthest away from the door. There was just enough room between the machine and the wall of an adjacent building for her to squeeze between the machine and the wall.

She had no idea what the machine sold, and didn't really care, as long as people had purchased what was in it. The intake slot was near the upper right side of the front panel, so the money shouldn't fall too far from the right side of the machine, she guessed. She patted the side with her hand to assess the tone it made.

"There should be money on this side, so I need you to stand here, sir," she said. "Block the view for a minute or so, just be nonchalant about it."

_Nonchalant,_ he thought. _Whatever . . . we're only here a few hours and already we're breaking the law. _He stood with his back to her, watching uninterested people walking from their cars and right into the store. Yar stood with her shoulder touching Riker's so people couldn't see around them at what she was doing. Using her phaser on a cut setting, she sliced through a large panel on the side of the vending machine.

Riker heard something clattering behind him, but it was subtle, not enough to get the attention of anyone who wasn't paying attention. Within 30 seconds, Yar had half-filled the paper sack with coins and bills, then put the paper sack inside the plastic sack. Then she replaced the panel, and performed a quick phaser-weld at the corners so the panel wouldn't fall off before they could escape.

No one in the parking lot seemed too concerned with what was happening to the vending machines. A vehicle with overly loud music booming from its open windows pulled into the store's lot, and even Tasha could feel the pavement vibrating through her boot soles from the bass beats emanating from the car's stereo system.

"Let's go," she said, handing the bag to her commanding officer.

Holding the bag, Riker started leaving with rapid, long strides.

"Not too fast, sir!" she whispered fiercely, and he slowed somewhat. "We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

"We already stand out," Will replied. "We don't want to get caught."

"We won't get caught if we keep moving," she said as they walked across a side street while continuing down Main. "They won't hear us leaving, with that noise that just pulled into the lot."

"No one even investigated what we were doing," Riker remarked after they'd traversed another block. "They must have thought we were servicing the machine. Maybe our uniforms resemble those of mechanics in this time."

"Maybe," she remarked. "I'll take that advantage. If it worked once, it'll work again, if need be."

"Let's hope we're back where we belong before that need arises," he replied.

* * *

**Main and 31st Streets, Kansas City, Missouri**

They had stopped at another busy intersection. Four lanes of cars crisscrossed at the traffic light. Tasha didn't like standing still and waiting for a light to change. Riker was right: They were too visible in their different clothes, and now she felt like a target. They were getting too many looks from people.

But Riker's focus had changed.

"Mmmm . . . what's that?" Riker said, inhaling deeply through his nose. Finally, a pleasantly delicious aroma, something other than sewage and vehicle exhaust: It was smoked meat. He had grown up eating smoked fish during his childhood in Alaska, and had developed a taste for it that went counter to 24th century vegetarian tastes. But for Will Riker, there was nothing like real meat. Synthetics didn't come close.

"Something smells _really_ good," he muttered, nodding toward the building across an empty parking lot from the corner where they were standing. The sign in front of the building said 'Gates BarBQ'.

"We need to keep moving, sir," Yar said, not dissuaded from their primary goal. She also was so cold by then that she couldn't feel her fingertips, which put them both at a disadvantage if she needed to use her phaser in a hurry. "I don't want to stay on this street in case they have our description."

"Maybe we should hide in Gates for awhile," he replied.

She stared at him. "What?"

"Now that we have some money, I was thinking we could sample the local cuisine."

"Oh, you're serious!" she exclaimed, but even then, she couldn't believe he was thinking about grabbing a bite to eat. _What the hell is he thinking? We need to get out of here!_

"Yes, I'm serious, lieutenant," he was getting irritated.

"We'll eat later," she said. "It's too early in the day for us to be finding much, anyway."

"It's been seven hours since we've eaten," he said, walking to the restaurant's front door.

"I don't think it's even open, sir," Yar called from the restaurant's parking lot after glancing at her watch. "It's only 0830 hours, here, sir."

"It smells open," Riker called back over his shoulder. He tugged on the restaurant's locked door several times before he noticed the sign on the door, stating that Gates didn't open until 1000 hours. He cupped his hands around the door, blocking out the light so he could see inside, toward the kitchen. Workers were, indeed, smoking meat for the upcoming lunch rush.

"Sir. . ." Tasha began.

He turned and glared at her.

"You're feeling vindicated right now, aren't you?" he said.

"Not really," she said. "I'll feel better when I'm warmer."

"So you _are _cold," he said.

"Yes! I'm cold," she said. "We're just standing here, so yes, I'm cold."

"You're not even feeling a tad bit smug that your commanding officer just made an ass of himself?"

"No, sir, I'm not," she said. "Respectfully, if you've made an ass of yourself, that's your problem."

"You can't even see the humor in that?"

"I'm a lot more focused on what we need to be doing, than I am on what you just did, sir," she said.

"If you'd done that, I'd still be laughing."

"I wouldn't have done that."

"Oh really?" he snapped. "So now you know everything about a place you've supposedly never been? Is the joke on me, now?"

"No, sir," she said, her voice edged with frustration. "But I'm not spending all the money we have at a place that isn't even open, yet, no! These people throw away more than they ever eat. All these trash cans are full of tossed-away food that we can eat for free, if it comes to that."

He opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better. She was right, and he knew it.

"All right, point taken, lieutenant," he said. "Disgusting, but all right."

* * *

They didn't say much else until they reached the thrift shop, finally, two blocks away from Gates. Even Riker's hands were starting to get numb at that point. The store was full of all kinds of clothing, shoes, bedding, dishes, everything that could be worn or furnished, all of it used before.

Both looked through coats hangings in the men's department, and finally found medium-heavy coats with hoods that sort of fit, and fumbled through paying for them with their bag of change. The bills were easiest to use, but the cashier offered to replace some of their quarters with bills.

"Wha'd y'all do, smash the piggy bank?" the cashier quipped. Riker nodded and smiled, internally struggling to understand what she had said beyond 'smash the piggy bank'. Her accent was different, an Old South lilt combined with contractions he'd never heard, before.

"Something like that," he replied.

"I'm running out of quarters, and my manager ain't been to the bank, yet," the cashier said. "I can give you fives and ones. Be less weight for y'all to carry around."

"That would be helpful, thank you," Riker replied. _Y'all must be a contraction for 'you' and 'all',_ he thought. _When she hands me fives and ones, then I'll know what she's talking about._

"Y'all work at the hotel?" she asked, nodding at their matching uniforms.

"Uh . . .no," Riker stammered, thinking of a lie. "Our luggage was lost."

"How'd the bus lose your bags?" the cashier replied. She was friendly, but Riker could tell she wasn't the type to believe everything so quickly. In the back of his mind, he prepared for her to ask where they had gotten so many coins. But she seemed too thrilled with having more quarters to consider how her customers had obtained them.

"It wasn't the bus. It was the train."

"Damn," she replied. "That ain't good. They got to fix that quick."

She counted out change while they watched, learning from the coin combinations what was worth what.

"I don't want to know where you got $12 worth of change, but I'm sure glad you had it," the cashier said, handing two $5 bills and two $1 bills to Will. "Them coats all you need?"

"Yes, for now," Riker said.

"That'll be $6 for the two of them," she said. Riker fumbled with the unfamiliar, paper money, finally handing her a $5 and a $1. "Well, if they don't find your bags come on back in and we'll get y'all fixed up. Good thing you got those coats, 'cause it's supposed to rain again this afternoon."

They left the store and started walking back in the direction they had come from. Riker guessed that it was nearly noon, but the sun had ducked behind clouds that had gathered again, adding to the chill.

"All right, I'm officially hungry," Riker said. "And we need to be thinking of what we'll do for shelter when the rain does arrive. There must be a transient shelter, somewhere."

"I'm sure there is, but they might ask too many questions," Yar said. Already deep in thought, she was plotting their next moves. She was also considering reasons why they were here. Something was very wrong. If this were a holodeck malfunction, they would have been found, by now.

Most ominous of all to Tasha was the complete absence of that constant hum that the _Enterprise_ engines produced as the ship warped through space. Even during the loudest of Holodeck programs or in the somewhat loud Ten Forward lounge, the motion and vibration could be felt. Now, that was completely gone. The only vibration she felt were occasional echoes of large trucks passing by on the street next to her. It all seemed too real.

Riker was looking at the unfolded map. "There's a park two blocks away," he said. "Why don't we head in that direction so we can regroup and plan."

* * *

On their way to the park, they stopped at a market and fuel station, initially intending on purchasing something to eat. They both used the bathrooms first. This time, Yar didn't attempt to check out Commander Riker's unsecured bathroom before he went inside.

They went into their respective rooms, and found the facilities to be basic at best. It took Tasha more than a minute to figure out how to turn on the water so she could wash her hands. A slimy bar of soap sat on the counter, but it was better than nothing.

As she was leaving, she noticed that the toilet hadn't done what it was supposed to do after it was used. The only thing remotely familiar about this toilet was its shape, which was somewhat familiar to the toilet at Union Station, which (even though it used water) had done its automatic cleaning cycle.

But this toilet hadn't done anything. _There must be a manual override,_ she thought. It looked ancient, so different from anything she understood that she finally gave up, hoping that the toilet was just broken.

Riker was waiting for her outside, and his expression bore the same, embarrassed confusion as hers did. She kept her voice low as they moved toward the center of the store.

"Sir, did your toilet . . . function?" she said, almost whispering.

"No, mine didn't," he replied. "I take it that yours didn't, either?"

She shook her head. "What are the odds that they're both not working?"

Intent on reporting the problem so it could be repaired, Will strode to the cashier's counter.

"Excuse me, sir," Riker said, and his voice echoed through the small interior of the store. "The restroom facilities are not working properly."

"What?" the clerk said. He had a no-nonsense way about him, and Tasha Yar immediately detected the streetwise swagger in his demeanor.

"The toilets aren't cleaning themselves—," Will said, but he was interrupted by angry rants of a man who had been waiting outside the men's room earlier. When Riker came out, that man had gone in, but was back out within seconds and now stormed toward the checkout counter fast enough that the bags of snacks hanging within that aisle swayed back and forth. Angry and insulted, he made a beeline for Riker.

"Hey man, you got to flush the stool!"

"The toilet isn't working," Will replied. "And I'm reporting the problem ri—"

"Bullshit!" the man yelled, growing more irate. "I just flushed your mess. That's nasty!"

"Mine didn't work, either," Tasha interjected, more intent on helping her commanding officer to save face than she was on thwarting an argument. But the man wasn't buying it. Obscenities and the middle finger were thrown in their direction before he shoved open the store's door and left.

"People been using 'em all morning," the clerk said. "Hope they ain't clogged again."

"They just didn't flush," Will said, again.

"The handle's broke on both of 'em?"

Riker and Yar both opened their mouths to respond at the same time, but then paused and looked at each other. _The handle?_

"Oh, you got to be kidding me!" the clerk looked at them, scornful but laughing because he got it immediately. "You ain't toilet-trained? Y'all don't know how to flush a toilet? Get the hell out!"

Chagrined, they silently hurried out of the store and were already in the park before either of them said anything.

"Well, that was sufficiently humiliating," Riker remarked.

"Yes, it was," she replied.

"At least the weather's warmed up, a little," he added, grateful for a coat, even if it reeked of cigarette smoke from the last person who wore it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Future's Past, Part 3**

* * *

**First Officer's log, supplemental**

_My initial hopes are fading that this incident was a training scenario. _

_Two weeks have passed since Lt. Yar and I arrived here, where we believe to be the dawn of the 21st century. According to the calendar, this is April 3, 2007. We've been here too long, with no contact from the Enterprise or from any Starfleet or Federation operatives. _

_We are in North America, in Kansas City. I have no idea why here, why now. Lately we haven't focused on that. We've focused instead on living by theft, surviving street life that is rougher than anything I learned about in Earth Civ classes, and in acclimating to a new society._

_Fortunately, Lt. Yar is putting her hardscrabble childhood to perfect use. She's phaser-burgled vending machines for cash and surreptitiously raided refuse cans. We now have an impressive collection of half-smoked cigarettes, which seem to be most plentiful outside nearly every place of business. Tasha insists we can use them to our benefit, if need be. I don't know how they would benefit anyone, but she seems insistent enough that I'm letting her run with it._

_We've been staying at different shelters that operate to assist people in need, and finally settled on one that's near the thrift shop where we walked that first day to get coats. The larger shelters downtown insist on separating men and women, and we need to stay together. The first week, we walked around, stayed to ourselves, attempted without success to repair the sole communicator we still have and loitered around Union Station for hours until we were asked to leave, just as Lt. Yar had feared we would be. _

_This week, we're planning. We know we're stuck here until we're rescued . . . or until we wake up from this nightmare, whichever comes first. _

* * *

Preparatory courses for Starfleet Academy were not only heavy on science, but also on history.

Required courses for entry to the Academy were Earth Civilization I through IV, which explained the varied cultures of Earth, and that influence on the United Federation of Planets. Students were required to know the great works of literature, arts, religion and anthropology. They read watched media presentations and passed tests that Will Riker and Natasha Yar had found tedious, mostly because they had wanted to get to the "interesting" coursework at The Academy.

Course instructors had told students that the past was a comparatively simpler time, when concerns rarely extended beyond immediate surroundings, and certainly not past the planet's atmosphere. Nuances were barely touched upon, because in the grand scheme of cultural history, those so-called "little things" weren't regarded as critically important. Course instructors also knew that most cadets regarded EarthCiv as "classes to get over with" as soon as possible.

But as Riker and Yar discovered, the past was multifaceted, with deep-laid layers interwoven through generations and taken for granted by those familiar with it. Consequently, the two Starfleet officers suddenly stranded 357 years in the past knew enough to get by in an art museum, or a classics library. Day-to-day truth was far more complicated. They knew nothing about what _life_ in the past was really like.

Commander Riker and Lt. Yar had spent the rest of that first afternoon in a city park, huddled beneath a picnic shelter while the cold rain came down yet again onto Kansas City. They wore used coats but were warm and dry, and thankful for it.

Even that first afternoon, they understood that focusing solely on the 'why are we here' question would only frustrate them, especially since they had little shelter and no food or water. They opted to focus instead on what they could control: How to fit into a place they hadn't planned to visit.

That realization struck them as they sat watching rainwater running down the street gutters, and holding the only guides they had: A city map and a telephone directory, which gave cross-referenced addresses. But the only telephones they had ever seen were in photos and media during their Earth Civ classes. If they needed to make a phone call, they both needed to learn how to operate the phone in the first place.

They felt fortunate they were in a location where English was spoken, because the Standard language spoken in the 24th century was heavily rooted in English, with a similar accent to what they heard in the 21st century in Kansas City, the so-called "middle of the road".

But some of the slang used in the 21st century was barely comprehensible to either of them, and initially they feared using it. Neither wanted to risk insulting someone, at least until they understood what the words actually meant.

Though the Alaska-born Riker could pass for an American, Yar had a slight accent that she'd fought desperately to lose since her rescue from her home world of Turkana IV, where the only official language is a variant of Ukrainian. After she escaped Turkana at the age of 15, Tasha had lived with a foster family who helped ease her transition to Earth. She quickly picked up Ukrainian while living in Kiev, but also immersed herself in Standard, learning to speak it fluently within months so she could enter Starfleet Academy.

During her years at the Academy, she worked hard to lose her accent so she could be clearly understood by others. But that accent occasionally surfaced, usually when she was tired or angry. Nearly 30 hours into this incident, Riker noticed that some of her E's were beginning to sound like Y's, and that she was rolling her R's—distinctly Slavic. He didn't know her that well, to begin with, other than perusing her personnel file and noting her high-level tactical and hand-to-hand combat skills, multiple commendations for valor and relatively new status as a senior staff member.

She didn't have the same luxury of perusing her commanding officer's personnel file, so comparatively, she barely knew him at all. But after he'd made a remark about her accent resurfacing, she recognized he was more familiar with North America, and forced herself to concentrate past her exhaustion. She would need to be more careful to avoid drawing unwanted attention, and that was the main goal for both of them.

If they actually were in the past, the last thing they wanted to do was negatively impact the future. They wanted desperately to stay out of history's way until they could figure out a way to get back to the _Enterprise. _They would need to blend in convincingly, but were so bewildered by the cultural nuances that they had no idea where to start. Yar knew she only had so many realistic opportunities to thieve money out of vending machines before she was caught.

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, Monday, March 20, 2007**

"Now I wish I hadn't slept through Earth Civ," Riker remarked that first afternoon, watching cars splashing through rainwater on the street nearby.

"Maybe we can help rewrite this portion of the curriculum when we get back," Yar said. "I was wide awake through all of it and there wasn't much in the course that we could use, here. Maybe there's a library, somewhere."

"How did you stay awake through that class?"

"It was boring, but it was new to me," she remarked. "I didn't grow up on Earth."

While Riker remained in the park to peruse the map and phone book and formulate a plan, Yar left to find something for them to eat, intent on a sandwich place they'd seen a couple of blocks to the west.

She came back 15 minutes later with a crumpled, white paper sack, and initially, Riker hoped she'd purchased something at a restaurant on Main Street, only a couple of blocks away. But the bag looked suspiciously rumpled.

"Dinner is served, sir," she said.

"Great! What is it?"

"I don't know," she replied, handing him the first item she pulled out of the bag.

"Where did you find it?"

She looked at him and smiled.

"Oh, you're kidding," he remarked, making a face.

"There's always something to eat in the trash," she replied. "We need to save our money, sir."

"I don't want to have a food-borne illness as part of my time-travel experience," Riker remarked, unfolding a wadded wrapper to reveal an ice-cold, squashed, soggy, half-eaten meat sandwich, wilted lettuce, cheese and yellow sauce holding it all together. "What is this?"

"I don't know what these are, either," she replied, looking into a smaller paper folder that appeared saturated with grease. "I think they were deep-fried."

"They're fried potatoes," Riker said. "They smell better than this does."

She examined one, then popped it into her mouth. "They taste awful, but we can live on them," she remarked. "Bon appetit, sir."

* * *

As dusk fell across Kansas City that first night, both officers found themselves deflecting the ire of another man who had intended to sleep in the park shelter, that night. But Riker and Yar had several things working in their favor: The amount of alcohol that the man had imbibed earlier in the day, and the curb he tripped over trying to charge at both officers in an attempt to scare them off "his" territory.

As the man lay face-down in the wet grass, Lt. Yar nonchalantly crouched in front of him, staying about two meters away in case he reached out to grab her.

"We were here first," Tasha remarked as the man looked up at her. "You can either share it with the two of us, or you can leave."

"Fuck you, bitch!" he said, struggling to his feet.

"No, thanks," she said standing up and stepping back, and Riker was floored that she didn't fly off the handle about being sworn at. "We were here first. Go sleep it off somewhere else."

He took a staggering swing at her, which she easily ducked, then she shoved him back. She didn't push him very hard, but he was so intoxicated that he fell backward, landing on his backside.

Will cut in. "Tasha, stop—" he said.

Yar threw up her hands. "He's so drunk he can't even stand up!" she said as the man scooted off, cursing, before standing back up and staggering away. "What is the point?"

"You need to stop," he said. "You're tired. Your accent is coming back."

"Sir, the Cold War ended in the late 20th century," Yar countered. "It doesn't matter."

"We can't be too careful," Riker said, suddenly a bit embarrassed that he hadn't remembered the Cold War dates. _Surely, she was talking about glasnost and perestroika..._he thought.

"What the hell you talking about?" the man called out from 25 meters away, where he had stopped walking to listen in on the very odd conversation.

Immediately, Yar turned toward the man, and snapped, "Nothing! Go sleep it off!"

"No, YOU need to sleep," Riker interjected. "I'm taking the first shift, you make yourself comfortable on this bench and sleep. That's an order."

"Sir—," she began.

"Lie down," Riker countered. Lt. Yar looked and sounded exhausted, and she was going to rest, whether she liked it, or not. "You'd better be unconscious within the next 10 minutes."

* * *

They spent that cold night sleeping in shifts on the concrete benches beneath the picnic shelter. Hypervigilant even as she was "resting", Lt. Yar opened her eyes from time to time, glancing around.

Riker could detect a palpable relief from her when it was finally her turn to take watch, and his turn to sleep. He was tired enough that he nodded off within minutes, sacked out on his back on the cold, concrete bench with the cigarette-smoke-infused coat wrapped around him.

Tasha scanned the park continuously, taking note of cars that passed by more than twice, watching a woman solicit herself from a nearby sidewalk. She saw the homeless man that she'd shoved earlier walking back toward the shelter, with a more sober, determined gait, and she stood up. She wanted him to see that she was awake, and that she knew he was coming.

Will Riker had snapped at her earlier that evening after her altercation with the man, telling her that making enemies wasn't going to do them any favors. He'd been right, of course.

"Hello, again," Tasha called out as the now-hungover man began to turn away. She was attempting to be cordial.

"Ain't you made enough, yet?" the man shouted toward her.

"Not in that business," Tasha said, immediately recognizing what he was talking about. "We're not doing that. Come on, sit down."

"You gonna kick my ass?" the man asked.

"I wasn't planning on it," she said, and dug into the paper sack for the cigarette butts she'd collected for situations like this. Commander Riker had seemed disgusted, but Tasha had known hey would come in handy. Where she was from, sharing a smoke was considered an olive branch.

"If you've got a light, I've got something to smoke," she said.

The man approached cautiously, and then sat on the bench across the table from Tasha. Riker lay on her back on the bench beside her, appearing to be asleep.

"I ain't seen you here until today," the man said, accepting a half-smoked cigarette butt and digging in his pocket for a lighter he kept handy for finds like this. "Where you from?"

"San Francisco," Tasha replied. That was sort of true. She'd lived there for four years while she was attending Starfleet Academy.

"You don't sound like you're from San Fran," the man responded, and Tasha felt a flush rising to her face. _I've got to get a handle on this accent, or just make something up that sounds innocuous,_ she thought.

"Well, originally, I'm from the Ukraine," she replied, and forced herself not to look sideways at Will Riker, who was now awake and pushing himself upright. _He's probably furious, I've probably said too much in so many ways, but at least I'm not denying anything._ "But after I came to this country, I lived for several years in San Francisco."

"So, what you doin' here?"

_Great...he bought it..._she was inwardly thrilled.

"Just passing through," Yar said. The man took a long drag off the cigarette that she had offered to him. Tasha studied the man carefully, watching how he operated his small lighter while trying not to inhale the smoke wafting in her direction.

"Hey, man," he nodded toward Will, and a genuine grin spread across his face as the nicotine rush began flooding his system. Will acknowledged the nod with one of his own, and suddenly recognized the inherent value in Lt. Yar's scavenging of cigarette butts. Now it made complete sense.

"We're broke," Tasha was saying, cutting right to the point. "Are there any shelters, anywhere?"

"There're lots of shelters all over downtown, but they're crowded and they don't let couples stay together. The places on 31st, they got Holy House, and then Reconciliation at Troost. They got cold showers, and the free clinic up on Valentine."

"What about you, where are you from?" Will asked.

"Gary, Indiana," the man said, with a smile.

"What brought you to Kansas City?" Tasha asked.

"Had a gig, but I got fired," the man replied. "This economy, no one's hiring a trumpet player, so I stayed."

"Damn, I guess that takes out my fall-back," Will remarked.

"You play trumpet?"

"Trombone."

"Kansas City got a lot of out-of-work musicians," the man said, extending his hand to Will. "Welcome to that club. I'm James."

"I'm Will," he replied, shaking James' hand and genuinely glad to meet another musician, even if he was hung-over, by then. "Nice to meet you."

* * *

**Wednesday, March 21, 2007**

They returned to the thrift shop on the second day, and purchased clothes with the last of the cash they had left. But that took more time than they had anticipated, because neither knew what their sizes were by 21st century standards. Riker recommended they layer their clothing, so they purchased four pairs of jeans, t-shirts and long-sleeve shirts to wear over them. Riker also found a ragged duffel bag with a shoulder strap, which could be used to transport extra clothes.

They walked back north...and found that they had competition for their next food raid. Several other people were waiting outside that same barbecue restaurant that Riker had found, earlier. They chatted for a while, and learned that they'd need to be careful which bins they raided because some places would call the police. Many others locked their garbage bins as a deterrent.

But this was a good raid: Barbecued meat, baked beans, more fried potatoes, all ice-cold and mixed together with plastic utensils, foam plates and sauce-soaked napkins. The worker who was supposed to lock up the trash instead gave the entire bag to the people waiting by the trash bin, and then walked back inside.

Some of the food had been bitten into, already, presumably whomever purchased the meal and elected to toss the uneaten portion away. Knowing that the restaurant manager or the police could show up at any time, the six people waiting outside grabbed what they could carry and got out of the parking lot within 30 seconds.

In the 24th century, most humans consumed synthetic "meat", as by then it was considered abhorrent to kill and consume any animal. But Will Riker's very upbringing set him apart: He had grown up eating fish, eggs and wild game. Though Tasha now preferred healthier, mostly vegetarian fare, she had grown up eating whatever she could find, and that included insects, rats and other vermin. She saw no reason why she couldn't do the same, here.

* * *

**Thursday, March 22, 2007**

By the third day, they both desperately wanted to clean up, and walked 10 blocks to a church-run shelter that James had mentioned during their park shelter chat. Showers were available for free, and by then neither officer cared if the water was ice cold. Workers at the shelter didn't ask too many questions. They were given toiletry supplies and offered Communion, which both politely declined. They noticed that no one else stayed, either, so after they each took showers, they opted also to disappear again onto the street. James had told them that would happen. _Sometimes, you got to be invisible,_ he'd said.

Tasha raided another vending machine, and they both went into a laundromat a few blocks away. They literally had stumbled on the establishment the day before while ducking inside to get out of the rain, and saw people stuffing clothes into machines.

Originally, they had thought their dirty clothes could be exchanged for clean ones, but that wasn't the case. Both officers were used to stuffing their worn uniforms into a recycling unit aboard the _Enterprise_. Recyclable clothing went to one place, and reusable clothing went to another, and officers received the reusable clothing back after it went through a quick dry-cleaning process.

But in the 21st century, clothes were cleaned using soap and water. The clothes were washed in one machine, and then moved to another machine to be dried. There was a line for the washing machines, which gave them the opportunity to watch how those machines were operated. They had decided to wash their uniforms and both used coats, which reeked of cigarette smoke.

But the entire process seemed to take forever, and it cost the small fortune they'd accrued from the Coke machine down the street. Not only did they need to pay for the machine, they needed to purchase packets of soap. They stuffed everything into one washer. Tasha made a shambles of the bag of detergent, which flew everywhere as she was figuring out how to open it. Inwardly infuriated, she'd scraped granules of detergent off the filthy floor, but most of it wound up in the machine.

Then they sat in two nearby chairs and waited . . . and waited . . , watching their clothes slosh around and glancing at other people also biding their time in the laundromat. They were both mildly irritated to discover that half the laundromat's patrons were chain-smoking through their wait, infusing just-cleaned clothes with the same aroma that both officers wished to _remove_ from the used coats they'd just purchased. Many people were talking on handheld communicators that they held to their faces, or they read newspapers or magazines that were tossed haphazardly into a wall-mounted storage bin. Will found a worn-out, paper publication called _Popular Mechanics_.

But Tasha, who had not slept well since their arrival in Kansas City, nodded asleep as she watched their clothes flipping over in the machines. Will didn't dissuade that: He knew she needed to sleep. But he jostled her awake after he discovered something had happened to their uniforms in the dryer.

"Do you know anything about textiles?"

"No, sir," she replied, blinking a few times to wake up. Her eyes were itchy, feeling caked with secondhand smoke that seemingly clung to everything inside the laundromat.

"I'm trying to figure out what happened to our uniforms," he remarked, holding up a very shrunken version of his command uniform. "This would have fit me when I was 6."

She stared at it. "I'd say the washing process, or the drying process."

"Probably the dryer," he mused, trying to keep his voice low even in the already loud establishment, which echoed with noises from machines in operation. "These clothes are really warm, but the coats don't appear to have shrunken."

"Well, our uniforms are meant to be recycled, not washed and dried," Tasha remarked. "If we're here for much longer, we'll need more clothes."

* * *

**Friday, March 23, 2007**

They took turns sleeping in the same park that third night. By 8 a.m., they were walking again, this time heading south on Broadway, past the heavenly aroma of coffee brewing across the street. But without much money, there would be no coffee for either of them. They chatted about finding employment to earn money for living expenses.

"There must be someplace that needs people to do odd jobs, cleaning, anything," Will remarked.

"We can't just walk into any of these places, and ask for jobs." she said. "We didn't even know how to flush their toilets."

"You didn't need to go there, lieutenant," Riker muttered.

* * *

They crossed a hilly street and walked into a different park. It was configured similarly to the one where they'd spent the last three nights, but this one appeared well-traveled, with what looked like rudimentary stretching and exercise benches, and plenty of sidewalks cutting across it. A large fountain was situated at its south end, about one kilometer away.

Then they stumbled upon an invaluable resource at the south side of that park: A branch of Kansas City's public library.

For more than a week, they spent their days in the library, poring over slang dictionaries, media articles, political commentary, pop culture and laws of the time. They found discarded pens, pencils and loose paper in library trash receptacles. At the end of the day, they compared notes. They were especially interested in government, citizenship issues and obtaining identification, which as they discovered wasn't going to be as easy as they had first considered.

Several years earlier, the United States had sustained a major terrorist attack, and the government had responded with stringent immigration policies and travel restrictions. It seemed like nearly everyone had negative things to write and say about politics that didn't match their own, which meant that two more people from "out of town" wouldn't be readily accepted.

They learned they would need birth certificates (which didn't exist yet for Will Riker, and would be non-existent for Natasha Yar) and social security numbers to obtain legal employment in the United States. Tasha's immediate reaction was to produce forged copies of what they needed, but she learned there would be background checks so the forgeries would need to be very good.

Tasha's suspicion of nearly everything paid off. She cautioned that they not discuss anything logistical while they were in the library in case they were overheard and suspected of being terrorists. It hadn't taken long for either of them to pick up on what everyone in the 21st century called, "9-11". Both officers swallowed verbalizations of far worse attacks that they knew would happen in the relatively near future.

Inwardly, Riker also was plotting what they would do if they still were stuck in the 21st century when those future attacks came, and struggled to recall where the "safe" places would be. He knew that Kansas City survived the nuclear holocaust for the most part, but that social unrest would make it an unsafe place to be during the Post-Atomic Horror.

* * *

**Wednesday, March 28, 2007**

They had their first "history scare," as Will would later put it, while they were at the library, researching their new surroundings. Although they knew comparatively little about what was happening in the time where they now existed, they knew too much about events that would happen later.

Just after the lunch crowds began stuffing restaurants near the library, a low-pitched siren built to a blaring cacophony outside. Within a minute, a second siren echoed the same wail from farther away.

Riker (who was upstairs researching how to forge documents) and Yar (who was researching the criminal code in the reference area) heard those sirens, and initially thought that nuclear war was at hand.

They hurried to the first floor, meeting near the information desk . . . and noticed that no one else seemed too concerned. These had to be air raid sirens, but people inside were still chatting with each other, checking out books, reading their newspapers. Across the parking lot, people who had gathered for lunch on outdoor eating decks seemed irritated at the noise, but otherwise were ignoring it, preferring to focus on their food, their company and the nice, sunny day.

Finally, Will asked someone at the information desk.

"They're testing the tornado sirens," the librarian replied. "Every Wednesday at noon."

"Tornado sirens?" Tasha was mildly horrified.

"You're not from around here, are you?"

"No, we just moved here," Riker said. "So, this happens every week?"

"Yes, starting in March and going all summer," she replied. "It's just to test the systems. They don't test it when we're under a watch, though."

"A watch?" Tasha asked.

"A watch is issued when conditions are favorable for severe weather. If we're under a watch, the sirens won't test to avoid confusion if the real thing happens. So if it's Wednesday and you don't hear the sirens, we're probably under a watch."

"And if the sirens go off some other time . . ."

"Well, around here, when the sirens go off for a real weather warning, people either go to the basement, or they grab their video cameras and run outside to see what's really going on."

Riker faked a laugh.

"There are some weather warning pamphlets on the second floor, if you'd like to know more about it," the librarian continued. "I'd recommend it, especially if you're new to the area and haven't been through severe weather, before."

The sirens faded away as they went upstairs, and grabbed every pamphlet they could find about severe weather that, as they discovered, occurred frequently in the American Midwest. They both had a pang of helplessness because if such weather did, indeed, occur while they were there, there wasn't anything they could do about it. Weather scientists in the 21st century had no way to dissolve and recycle potentially hazardous weather patterns.

"It says we need to be in a basement," Yar said. "Is this realistic? If a tornado strikes while we're outside and can't seek shelter elsewhere, we need to lie down in a ditch? I don't understand how that would protect anyone."

"I wouldn't want to be outside," Riker replied. "Let's work under the assumption that we'll be here for awhile, and start looking into where we could be living, besides the park."

* * *

Social security numbers were obtained using death records from people whose first names were the same, but last names were different. Using a library computer that had been left logged on by a previous user, Riker located the records of a deceased man named William Riggs, and a deceased woman named Natasha Harris, both of whom had lived in the San Francisco area. It didn't take him long to locate their social security numbers and dates of birth. He calculated his and Tasha's actual ages, and came up with new years of birth for both of them, but kept the original date and month of birth for both Riggs and Harris.

Riker also located copies of California birth certificates and copies of the state seal, plus color copies of both sides of a social security card. He developed forgeries that looked accurate enough, and forgeries of the social security cards using blue card stock that he had found tossed away in the trash. He distressed both cards to make it look as if they'd been through a lot, and so the forgery might not be as easily recognized.

Their new last names and birth dates would take some getting used to. While he was forging identities for both of them, Riker also created histories.

Riker came up with the idea that they had both been foster children from San Francisco. This would be partially true more than three centuries hence for Tasha, who had been fostered by a family in Kiev for 18 months. Will Riker's destiny was more self-directed. He had left his Alaskan home at age 15 after a particularly brutal fight with his father, and had spent several days roaming the San Fran before testing into Starfleet Academy.

Now he was First Officer of the _Enterprise_, arguably the best ship in the fleet, and here he was roaming the streets of Kansas City, stuck 350 years in past with the _Enterprise_'s chief of security. Their one phaser was being used to steal money so they could purchase things, and their sole communicator was dead.

Their mission was now learning a new way of life. In the 21st century, they would need to "earn a living", but she also knew that finding employment would be the least of their worries. Finding a job wasn't as easy as Earth Civ had made it seem.

* * *

**Saturday, March 31, 2007**

They walked as far as looked productive for them, familiarizing themselves with their new surroundings, and how life went, here. But for all his travels and vast experience as a native of North America, Will Riker seemed woefully unprepared for the realities of urban life in the 21st century.

Prostitution was illegal, but seemingly hidden in plain sight on Main and on Broadway. Women and men not only sold themselves, but also sealed the deals in the same park where both officers had been sleeping, not far from the thrift shop.

"You don't seem disturbed by this, at all," Will remarked one evening as he and Tasha were 'enjoying' her latest garbage raid from a Thai restaurant based in the cluster of bars, shops and eateries located several blocks from the park where they'd been staying.

A car was parked at the curb about 20 feet away, and business was booming inside it.

Will tried and failed to ignore the moans of a paying customer on the receiving end of a blowjob inside the Lexus, which Will knew by then wasn't a cheap vehicle. The man had even left the windows open, which also said he was brazen enough that he couldn't have been a first-time customer.

"I'm not," she remarked, honestly. "Until I arrived on Earth, I figured it went on everywhere. She's probably got her reasons for doing what she's doing."

"There's NO reason for anyone to degrade themselves that way," Will said.

_Maybe you'd be surprised . . ._ Tasha almost said it, but forced herself not to go there. She wasn't too anxious for her commanding officer to know _those_ details, that she'd spent her latter childhood as a drug-addicted prostitute. It wasn't something she wanted listed on her Starfleet bio. Her advisor at the Academy had told her there was no reason she needed to go into the gritty details of her childhood with anyone, so for the most part, she didn't.

She didn't mind discussing the drugs, the lack of food, the cadres overthrowing the government, the extreme violence of her home world. But she didn't even like thinking about that other aspect of her life, and not just because the memories were horrible. It had been a trade-off, made in desperation after Tasha and her younger sister were rescued from what would have been certain death in the Turkanan catacombs.

Their rescuers turned out to be human traffickers. Intent on protecting her sister from being sold away from her, Tasha agreed to work in exchange for Ishara's safety among the traffickers. Ishara was only about 3 years old, and was spared a similar life by her sister's decision.

Tasha didn't discuss that element of her past with anyone. She figured it wasn't anyone else's business. They hadn't lived her life. Being caught by a gang in the catacombs always resulted in the victim's murder, so hooking up with traffickers guaranteed their safety, in a way. She had a place to sleep, food to eat and protection as a commodity as long as she put out.

Her younger sister Ishara, who grew into a calculating and vicious preteen with strong cadre connections, hated Tasha for degrading herself and her family when she could have just joined the cadre for protection and food. But Tasha had hated the cadres since witnessing the murders of her family shortly after the fall of the Turkanan government. She had stubbornly refused any cadre connection, but readily queried her customers for information about off-world transport options. She'd been careful about it: If she'd been caught attempting to leave, the cadres would have killed her on the spot.

As soon as she learned of an off-world transport and had the chance to leave, Tasha took another chance: She found her sister, and begged Ishara to escape the planet with her and have a new start. Ishara angrily screamed at her, called her a whore and a traitor, loud enough to echo through the entire network of caverns that had been dug 400 feet beneath the nuclear wasteland that was Turkana City. Tasha had turned and fled, escaping aboard a smuggler's shuttle. She never saw Ishara again.

During her first weeks on Earth, Ishara's words rang in her memory and tugged at her self-esteem until her foster mother finally sat Tasha down one afternoon after a particularly rough day at the school she'd begun attending to catch up. Tasha had been on Earth less than a week. She spoke no Standard and couldn't read, but understood spoken Ukrainian. She had been thrilled when several girls her age struck up a conversation with her, and then was devastated when they turned on her after they learned how Tasha had survived on Turkana.

_You did what you had to do to survive, and you survived,_ Olena Ilienko had said. A firm but understanding woman who had fostered several Turkanan refugees, she knew what she was in for when Natasha Yar arrived on a strange planet where everyone had enough to eat and people could live outside. But Tasha adjusted relatively fast. Her only freak-out instant came that second night in Kiev, when she saw falling snow for the first time and mistook it for radioactive debris.

_Anyone who judges you never walked in your footsteps, and probably wouldn't have survived it if they had, _Ilienko had said_. It's not their business, anyway. They've never had to fight for anything, so they appreciate nothing. _

From that day forward, Tasha adopted an intensity that was unstoppable when it came to her studies. She immersed herself in learning Standard while living in the Ukraine and caught up to her age-group level in only 11 months. Used to fighting on Turkana, she excelled in martial arts classes on Earth, gearing up for a tactical and communications career with Starfleet.

When she was on the _Enterprise_, she was reminded of Turkana only in flashbacks, most of which she could tamp down quickly. But she'd had a bad one standing at the bridge during one mission, and Geordi LaForge witnessed all of it. He'd caught her, gripping her shoulders, as she'd stammered through a frighteningly real flashback of coming frighteningly close to being caught by a rape gang.

Although she still bore a deep shame at the things she'd done and the drugs she'd accepted from her bosses to numb herself from thinking too much while it was happening, Tasha would not deny any of it. If Will Riker put two and two together and asked her outright, she'd admit to it immediately. An order was an order.

But he didn't ask. He was too busy slamming on the cultural underground to notice that he was deeply offending the officer sitting beside him.

_Everyone has reasons,_ she thought. _I had reasons. It wasn't as if I had a choice._

He was her commanding officer, and she would absolutely follow his orders. But her wall was going up, quickly.

* * *

**Lt. Yar's log, April 16, 2007**

_Might as well be the dawn of time._

_Kansas City, Missouri, United States of America, Earth._

_Might as well be the Moon._

_At least I've got a job. _

_But the last place I'd expected to be working is a bar. I don't like being around people who are intoxicated. But I'm employed, and it happened by someone else's intention. I was walking toward the nearest newspaper stand when a man attacked me from behind. I disarmed him quickly and tied both his arms and one leg behind his back with his own belt. A second man who had been driving past stopped to help, and he called law enforcement on his cell phone, then waited with me for the police to arrive._

_The police initially tried to detain me for unlawful imprisonment, and then they found out my assailant had a warrant for first-degree murder. So they let me go and encouraged me to apply to the police department so I could legally detain people. _

_I think I actually smiled. Working in law enforcement would have been perfect, except that I exist in this century with faked documents and I didn't want to draw more attention than I already had. I remember saying that I was looking for a job and that I'd consider applying. They loaded the man into the back of a patrol car and left. _

_The man who had assisted earlier is a manager at a bar and grill nearby. He told me that if I was interested, he'd hire me to work there as a waitress and bouncer. So I applied, used my brand-new Missouri ID card that Riker obtained with those faked documents, and I was hired. I thought at first they must have been really desperate, but the manager, Gary, said he knew I'd be able to hold my own if things got out of hand._

_The only potential catch was that I don't have a driver's license, and Riker and I already had come up with a response for anyone asking that question: We don't own a car and couldn't afford the insurance, which is absolutely true. Riker and I were telling anyone who asked that we were new in town and looking for a new start. I told the manager that I was staying with "a friend" until I had enough money for rent. _

_Commander Riker seems pleased that I found employment, but I think he's ticked off that I found a job before he did. _

_So I've been working for the past two weeks, having my hearing blown out by loud music and learning about liquor. Most of what I do is wait tables and clean up, but I've also diffused a number of arguments and split up a few fistfights. _

_I think the most difficult part is getting used to having a new last name. But apparently, it was easier to raid from the dead than it was to invent records for the living. So now, I'm Natasha Harris, and Commander Riker is William Riggs._

_Several days ago, Riker found a job at a grocery store on the other side of Westport, so he gets to wade through the drunk college kids spilling out of the bars on his way back from work._

_We've put a deposit down on an apartment and are looking forward to moving in tomorrow. Riker is getting tired of the shelter scene, mostly because people are starting to ask the usual "you seem educated, what are you doing out here?" questions. But we've been grateful at the same time because we've been able to eat there, sleep there, clean up there, and learn from the people who also stop by for the same reasons. _

_Many are loners, though a few come in together. Commander Riker and I have gotten to know some of them on a first-name basis, even sharing information with them. But we've kept to ourselves for the most part. I know that it's sometimes safer to be unaffiliated than it is to be linked with a cadre. They're called "gangs" here. _

_At least there's something familiar about this place._


	4. Chapter 4

**Future's Past, Part 4**

* * *

_**Will Riker's personal log, Sunday, April 29, 2007**_

_First, we were confused by our situation. We didn't know why we were here, and we still don't. We've both gotten jobs, but they're menial. It's hard to stay focused and positive when we're bored out of our minds. _

_Now we're just hacked off, and we're taking it out on each other. _

_Chain of command fell by the wayside out of necessity. Tasha and I have abandoned the expectation of addressing each other by our rank, because it attracts too much attention. We had toyed with the idea of claiming that yes, we are military. After all, Starfleet command titles were taken from those used by the United States Navy. _

_But that idea was abandoned when we ran into a man at a downtown shelter who actually had served in the United States Marine Corps, and he was quick to call bullshit when neither Tasha nor I knew where we had served, nor which unit we'd been in. He threatened to have us prosecuted for impersonating military officers, so we got out of there fast, and haven't been back to that shelter, since. _

_Tasha and I are on a first-name basis, at this point. I wonder when it's going to descend into name-calling. She's been getting on my nerves, and I'm sure I'm having the same effect on her. We're tired, and we're discouraged. _

_I'm kicking myself for not learning more about capitalism while I was at the Academy. I hadn't taken them because I wasn't interested. But now I wish I had. The credit-driven economy in the 21st century is so convoluted and complicated. Mostly, I worry that my ignorance will cause me to lose my job. I don't understand a lot of the terms being thrown around at the store where I now work. I show up before dawn and stock produce, change prices and nod and smile at customers asking what's "on sale", which makes no sense. Everything they see is on sale. Otherwise, it wouldn't be out there. _

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, Tuesday, April 17, 2007**

Under the best of circumstances, William Riker and Natasha Yar were polar opposites in how they handled things.

Riker was driven, yet laid-back and more likely to deviate from protocol if he thought it would benefit his ship and crew. He was social and amiable, and generally found ways to enjoy himself no matter where he was.

Yar was career military, but her background was far more violent. She had the street background, and needed to be physically active to relax. She was a natural loner, much more comfortable being by herself. She wasn't a patient individual, and never hesitated to act when she felt she needed to fix something.

And, as Will quickly learned, she tended to always want to have the last word.

Both Starfleet officers had found themselves on 21st century Earth for reasons unknown. More than two months had passed. They had part-time jobs and an apartment, and were fitting in, albeit in their own ways. But as their new surroundings began to stabilize with more predictable routines that were punctuated by work, Will and Tasha began withdrawing from each other, rank or not.

It wasn't the intense Lt. Yar who was first to snap. It was Commander Riker, just before they moved into their apartment.

He had been trying to get her to call him by his first name, not only so she would lighten up but also to avoid drawing unwanted attention. That was a tough one for Tasha, though she was a fellow senior officer. The 'sir' kept coming out.

In hindsight, Will realized how overdone his response was to her latest slip of the "sir". It happened the morning after they'd spent their last night at the shelter off Linwood.

Tasha had already proven by sleeping on park benches that she could make herself physically comfortable anywhere. Once at the shelter, she and Will found spots in the auditorium already crowded with others who also needed a place to sleep. Tasha situated her foldout cot, curled up beneath a shelter blanket and closed her eyes . . . but she never really slept. Will knew by then that she was an exceptionally light sleeper who was always on guard for anything in a non-secured environment.

He did need a deep sleep that night, but it was not to be. His two-meter-plus frame and wide shoulders barely fit on the fold-out cots, and he wound up lying flat on his back with his knees bent over the bottom edge of the cot. He didn't sleep well, and now his back hurt.

The showers actually were lukewarm the next morning and for the first time in two days, Will felt somewhat human. He walked half-dressed out of the shower, muttering, "your turn," to Tasha, who was next in line as he shuffled past.

"Thank you, sir," she replied, out of habit.

Her response set his fatigued mind off. "Enough of the 'sir'!" Will whispered, right in her face. "It's Will, or William, or if you like, Bill, which sounds bizarre—"

"Will," she interrupted with a sarcastic tone. She hadn't even blinked during his tirade.

"Yes," he replied. "That's better, but lose the attitude."

"Your fly's open," she said, shooting him a dagger look before slamming the bathroom door behind her.

Laughter erupted nearby from a man whose layered clothing made him look twice as large as his wasted frame. He sat up on his foldout cot, having slept in all his clothes and shoes, and grinned past the few teeth he had left. The snippy exchange had made his day.

"She the one wearin' the pants, man," he said, laughing deeply.

* * *

**At the apartment in Kansas City, Missouri, April 17, 2007**

Their apartment was small, non-furnished, and a dirt-cheap $200 per month with paid utilities, five blocks away from the predominately residential area where Tasha worked.

The single-bedroom apartment was older, and had a main room, small bedroom, single bathroom, and a small kitchen with a stove and refrigerator. Will was excited about the kitchen. Tasha could have cared less.

They walked into the unit, each of them carrying either the duffel bag or plastic sacks of towels, blankets, basic kitchen and dining utensils they had just purchased at the thrift shop. They were too exhausted—and too ticked off at each other—to do much else beyond unpacking those bags. Tasha had to be at work in an hour.

Neither of them said much. By the time Tasha had thoroughly inspected the entire apartment, Will already had chosen a side of the bedroom, and had fallen asleep on the years-old, tramped-down, shag carpet that reeked of cigarette smoke.

Tasha dropped her duffel bag on the opposite side of the bedroom, where she could look down the hall and see anyone coming into the apartment. It was a much better defensive position than sleeping in the other room because of the way the apartment door opened. From the main room, she wouldn't be able to see intruders coming through the door until they'd closed the door behind them. But from the bedroom, she could see anyone attempting to enter the apartment.

* * *

**Late April, 2007**

In spite of the more secure surroundings, Tasha still didn't sleep well and often woke to sirens, horns, or sometimes nothing at all. She was used to being more active, but the only exercise she got was waiting tables, carrying (or spilling) drinks, and walking to and from their apartment. When she couldn't fall back to sleep, she got up and paced. Sometimes she left the apartment to go for a walk, even in the middle of the night.

It didn't help that they had no furniture. Every bit of their saved salaries had gone to pay their deposit and rent, so the few belongings they had were on the floor.

They couldn't believe what furniture rental places charged. With interest, it was cheaper to purchase furniture outright than to rent it month-to-month. They figured if they got their clothes from the thrift shops, they could get furniture from them, too, when they could afford it.

Their one extravagance was a newspaper, purchased every morning from a machine two blocks away. They saved the papers in the corner of the apartment's main room, and occasionally re-read them.

They kept some food in the kitchen, but couldn't afford much extra, yet. Will brought crackers and instant soup back from the grocery. He also brought some canned vegetables being sold on clearance, but after he got home he realized they had no way to open them.

Tasha tried using the phaser as a can opener, and only succeeded in spraying stewed tomatoes across her face, shirt and one of the overhead kitchen counters. Will couldn't suppress a good-natured laugh at what had happened. But Tasha merely shook her head, embarrassed at what happened and irritated because she had just put on a clean shirt. Now there would be more laundry to drag downstairs to the apartment complex laundry room. While she was grateful that they didn't need to go back to the smoke-filled laundromat, she never looked forward to sitting in the tiny, hot laundry room for two hours while their clothes spun around.

They were sleeping on the floor in the single bedroom with blankets and used pillows, on opposite sides of the room. Before they found themselves stuck together in the 21st century, Will had been used to sleeping naked in his comfortably cool cabin on the _Enterprise_. But in deference to the female roommate he now had, he relented to wearing shorts when he slept. Tasha always curled up on the opposite side of the room, with her back to the wall.

* * *

**Thursday, May 3, 2007**

Both took extra hours at their workplaces, mostly to get away from each other. Things were tense. They were frustrated and bored, plus a bit frightened at the possibility they might be stuck there for the rest of their lives.

Tasha occasionally made offhand remarks about the lawlessness and the whining from people who had seemingly had little to complain about. The uneven distribution of justice bothered her greatly.

"So, this guy was drunk," Tasha remarked, nodding toward a story she was reading from the newspaper. "And then he drove his car onto the sidewalk and killed two people waiting at the bus stop, and then drove away and tried to hide the car, and now he's getting probation?"

"Yeah, I heard about that one, yesterday," Will remarked. He was reading the business section of the paper, feeling ridiculous. His face bore five, tiny scraps of toilet paper to soak up blood from his latest foray into shaving with one of the razors that men used in the 21st century. "The guy's father is a prominent attorney here. You should have heard people lighting up the local, talk radio channel about it, this morning. People are outraged."

"Well, good!" Tasha said. "He left two people to die, and he's getting off because the city is afraid of a lawyer?"

"Lawyers are powerful people, here," Will remarked. "Nearly everything in this time period is tied to litigation and power and under-the-table deals."

"What kind of a crazy fucking place is this!" Tasha angrily exclaimed. "How in a civilized society does someone who killed two people just get away with it?"

"He got probation," Will replied, more than a bit disturbed by her choice of words. _Where is she picking this up?_ he thought

"Probation is bullshit," she remarked. "He got rewarded for being the son of so-and-so, and the prize he won is getting to go back to his posh life. The two victims in the case got the maximum sentence. I can't believe this actually went on—"

"Would you just drop it?" he said. "I don't agree with it, either, but this is how things are, here. It does no good to get mad at things we can't control. We can't get involved. Just...shut up about it, all right?"

"Fine," she muttered, and that was also fine with him.

Insubordination normally wasn't something he tolerated, but rank had fallen by the wayside, here. She hadn't said much else after his rebuke, so he didn't worry about it. She did as she was told, and gradually that isolation ate at both of them.

* * *

They worked different schedules, so they barely saw each other except in passing. Neither of them minded.

Will knew he should be handling this from a chain of command perspective, but what difference would it make to argue? And what if she was right? _She fits in better than I do, _he thought. _She's a chameleon. I can't tell who she is, anymore. _

Since he was responsible for offloading and stocking produce at Westport Grocery, Riker worked hard in the mornings, and spent the early afternoons straightening the department and picking up stray grapes that had been smashed onto the retail floor throughout the day. He had to be at work by 0600.

Tasha worked in the evenings at 43rd Place Bar & Grille, often until the bar closed at 0200 hours. The grill closed at 2300, but the bar had its last call at 0130. There was live music five nights a week, and on those nights the place was always busy. A large television upstairs (plus several more on the first level) often broadcast sporting events, and on nights when area teams were playing, the upstairs was packed.

Some patrons drank until they threw up. And then after they threw up, some of them paid to drink some more. She quickly grew tired of cleaning vomit from various locales inside the bar. The restrooms were especially bad, typically when sick customers didn't make it to the toilet before everything came up.

On several occasions, Tasha got to do what she did best: Subdue people. Usually, it had just taken a pressure point to drive her point home that fighting wasn't going to be tolerated, and that they'd better leave before the police were called.

Within her first weeks at the bar, she'd gained a reputation among regular patrons that she was not someone to mess with. She was polite and prompt, only spilled a few drinks. But she wasn't afraid of conflict, at all. She didn't hesitate to confront angry men who weighed twice as much as she did—and when she did, she could more than hold her own.

Still, she reserved her abilities for fear of going too far and genuinely hurting anyone. She was also conscious of the law. She'd done a great deal of research about what she could and could not do legally as far as detaining people and defending herself. Tasha knew she was lucky to have a job.

She tried to ignore the binge drinking and focused instead on learning by eavesdropping on conversations.

It was Will's idea to write down slang terms she learned, and consolidate them into a notebook they kept at the apartment. Tasha scribbled terms on napkins, on toilet paper, on anything she could get her hands on. She carefully squirreled the notes away in her jean pockets so she wouldn't inadvertently place a drink on one of her term-covered napkins.

She found herself speaking regularly with people who lived on the streets, learning about the area, developing contacts.

One afternoon, she stumbled on a karate school in the Westport area, where for $60 per month she could join the dojo and take classes or work out whenever the facility was open. She saved her tips from one week of work, and signed up, looking forward to furthering her knowledge of another martial art. She had learned basic karate at the Academy before opting to focus on Aikido, Tae Kwan Do, Krav Maga and other fighting forms.

This time, she was signing up for exercise, and for some semblance of discipline in a world that seemed to have little of it.

The dreary days passed into weeks made more comfortable by warmer weather. But things had chilled considerably for Will Riker and Tasha Yar.

* * *

**Early May, 2007**

Now that they knew how to operate a manual toilet, Will left the apartment's toilet seat up on a regular basis. Sometimes he did it on purpose because Tasha increasingly pissed him off. He thought she was getting . . . _lazy._

Will thought she was spending too much time hanging out on the street with the same people that he'd thought they'd rented the apartment to get away from. On more than one occasion, he'd seen her sitting outside a Broadway coffee shop, chatting with the same people who panhandled their way through existence.

Where Will was comfortable around the more upscale, intellectual crowd that tended to gather at bookshops and at the more upscale eateries and shops toward the south on The Plaza, Tasha was seemed most relaxed with the people who didn't fit in anywhere. She'd even started to dress like them: Jeans and plain capris, sandals, t-shirts.

Will's job demanded that he appear more professional, so he leaned more toward the business casual end, even when he wasn't working. He still perused the thrift shop, but purchased shoes new (albeit on sale). His work at the grocery store had alerted him to coupons, sales, and ways and means to save money.

Their collective income more than paid for rent, and they'd discussed the furniture option. The main problem would be getting that furniture to their apartment. Will had checked into several used furniture stores that delivered, but the cost of delivery almost was as expensive at purchasing the furniture, itself.

He was very tired of sleeping on the floor, but Tasha hadn't said much about it. He wondered if she was still digging through the trash for her meals. Her language had turned trashy as well. She had picked up a number of colorfully obscene terms from her work at the bar, and although none had been used to his face, he heard her muttering under her breath a few times.

Dutifully, she'd written everything down in the notebook they kept in the main room, and the idioms she'd learned were considerably more profane than anything Will heard at the store.

"Are you learning any slang that isn't obscene?" he asked her one afternoon as she was getting ready to leave for work.

She shrugged. "It depends on how much people have had to drink," she said. "Usually in that venue, everything is either fucked, fucking or fuckable."

Despite himself, Will had to chuckle a bit at that one. He'd need to remember it when describing the linguistic tendencies of the culture they now inhabited.

"What about the crowd at your street corner hangouts?" Will said, not attempting to disguise his contempt.

She shot him a look, but still replied. "Basically, the same."

"It wouldn't hurt you to expand beyond the street crowd," he said. "Maybe going to the art galleries, or the museums, or somewhere else."

"I'm not comfortable anywhere else," she'd said, and her tone betrayed an insecurity that Will had seen before, even on the _Enterprise. _

"Why don't you think you'd be comfortable?"

"I've never been interested in art galleries," she replied.

"Have you been, yet?" Will asked. "To the Nelson-Atkins or Kemper?"

She shook her head.

"Why not?" he said. "They're close, they're interesting."

She shrugged. "I just haven't," she replied. "It's not my thing."

"What is your thing?"

"I don't know, yet," Tasha replied, although she already had several things in mind. She suspected they wouldn't be so thrilling to Will. When she wasn't working, she walked all over the place or worked out at the dojo. She wasn't interested in the trendy crowd, or in sucking up to anyone.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Will, Tasha had sent in a criminal background check form to the State of Missouri so she could volunteer at Reconciliation when she wasn't working at the bar. She suspected he'd be upset because she wouldn't be making any money, so she was reluctant to say much about it.

Before frustration and tension had eliminated much of their conversations, Will and Tasha used to make observations about what they'd seen and done, what they'd heard from those around them. Now, Tasha didn't want to say anything, because it almost always promoted a critique from Will. He didn't seem interested in listening. He only wanted to take the pundit's viewpoint. In response, Tasha withdrew from him.

Will put aside his worries that Tasha wasn't doing anything worthwhile by immersing himself in learning more about 21st century economics, which proved more convoluted and therefore interesting than anything he'd learned about in school.

Although he hadn't understood the Ferenghi when the _Enterprise_ crew had to deal with them, the species and its attitudes suddenly made a little more sense. Will pondered that future dealings with the Ferenghi might be easier if he knew more about that type of economy and culture.

He spent time at a used bookstore after he got off from work. It was across Southwest Boulevard and in the opposite direction as the apartment, but it proved a terrific escape for Will, who lost himself in the vast array of reading material.

_Captain Picard would love this_, he thought, knowing that Jean-Luc Picard was a history and literature buff. The classics still were there, but also books about contemporary politics, economics, management.

He purchased only a few of the books, usually the ones that looked interesting on the 50 cent rack: World Almanacs, a slang dictionary, a used economics textbook, paperback guides that were aptly labeled with titles like Personal Finance for Dummies. Having learned about coupons at the store, he also acquired coupons for books, and with one that earned 50 percent off, he purchased a book about the history of Kansas City for $2.

Will brought the books back to the apartment and spent evenings reading. He pored over the _Kansas City Star_, _The Pitch_, and any other local publication he could either cheaply get his hands on, or get for free.

He became interested in local politics and culture. The city's politics were always interesting and somewhat frustrating to Will, who didn't have a lot of patience for pandering, nor payoffs for political favors. He shook his head over the revolving door of public school superintendents who seemed to be annually run off by the Kansas City, MO school board.

He was intrigued with the upcoming political candidate races, which were firing up for city positions. The next United States presidential election wasn't going to be held until 2008, and already it was being discussed in many news articles.

Will didn't know if they still were going to be around to witness the outcome of those races, but the pre-election squabbling was entertaining enough that he almost wished they'd be around to watch it play out, even though he remembered from Earth Civ how it turned out.

* * *

_**Yar's log, written on paper, Wednesday, May 16, 2007**_

_Wednesday morning, walking home in the middle of the night. I'm always glad to be walking back one block away from Westport, and not through Westport. Will has told me enough stories of being grabbed (and not in a threatening way) while walking through the party crowd on his way home from work. _

_I think he's bragging. I'd often wondered why he didn't just walk one block north so he could avoid women trying to pick him up. He never does walk north, which confirms for me that he's really a walking gland masquerading as a stranded Starfleet commander._

_It's loud to the west and gorgeous to the east. Thunderstorms are billowing in the eastern sky and lightning illuminates those clouds. It's so humid that a phaser blast would sizzle in midair. I've learned to appreciate this unstable weather. I can relate to it._

* * *

**Friday, May 18, 2007, 0130 hours**

"It's your turn to do the laundry," Will said, even before she'd shut the apartment behind herself. He had gotten in only five minutes earlier from a marathon double-shift at the store. He grabbed the extra hours when he could, and this one happened when a checker didn't show up for work. So he learned how to operate a register, and now he felt as exhausted as Tasha appeared.

Anything involving _laundry_ was the last thing Tasha wanted to hear. They took turns washing their clothes. But both of them believed there couldn't be anything more boring than sitting around in the apartment complex basement while the clothes sloshed around, then rolled around, and then were folded or hung up.

She just wanted to pass out as soon as she reached the apartment. But he was right. It was her turn.

"You OK?" he asked after a few seconds. He'd really looked at her for the first time in days, and she looked horrible, like she hadn't slept much.

"I don't know," she replied, without even thinking. She was so tired that she couldn't see straight, but she caught herself before telling him about it. He didn't want to hear about it, anyway. "Long night," she added, before he could ask.

She didn't say that it had been an extraordinarily busy evening, with a raucous bachelor party plus the regular, full crowd crammed upstairs and squeezed against the bar to watch the Kansas City Royals lose their baseball game against the New York Yankees, a team against which Kansas City had a long-term animosity.

Game watchers tended to leave losing games early, but the bachelor party was just firing up. One attendee vomited on Tasha's shoes as she attempted to help him up off the floor. The bar was so busy that she'd only had time to quickly wipe off her shoes, and now dried chunks were stuck fast within the shoes' mesh vent holes.

She took her coat and shoes off, leaving them in a pile on the floor.

"Why are you leaving your things there?" he asked, irritated at her already. He hated that her belongings tended to stay where they fell, instead of being placed somewhere predictable.

"My shoes got vomited on," she said, just wanting to get out of there, at that point. Will was about to yell at her again for being a slob. Truth was, she no longer gave a damn what he thought, and didn't want to hear about it, either. "I'll clean them up when I finish with the laundry. Is it ready?"

"Bagged up," he nodded toward the corner nearest to the door.

"Thanks," she said, grabbing it and leaving for the small laundry room downstairs.

Will fell asleep within minutes. When he woke the next morning, Tasha was curled up in her corner of the bedroom, with neat piles of clean clothes on respective sides of the bedroom. When he came out of the bathroom after a quick shower, he found her in the kitchen, using a washrag and her own fingernails to clean dried vomit off her shoes.

It only occurred to Will later, as he crossed Broadway en route to work before dawn the next day, that they didn't say so much as "good morning" to each other.


	5. Chapter 5

**Future's Past, part 5**

* * *

**Random observations from the handwritten notebook kept by Will Riker and Natasha Yar**

_"Road repair tar will not come out of clothing."_

_"No one doubles $1 coupons."_

_"The bus won't stop for you if you aren't standing at a designated bus stop."_

_"Exact change means what it sounds like."_

_"Tequila = Romulan Ale"_

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, Earth, Wednesday, May 23, 2007**

During his lunch break, Will Riker opted to walk around the neighborhood near the grocery store where he worked.

It was a gorgeous morning to be outside, and he wasn't the only one who thought so. Warm weather and the clearest, blue sky he'd seen in a long time were a great invitation to leave any building. Dozens of other people were milling around the neighborhood complex of shops, restaurants and bars.

As he neared his turnaround point near 40th and Broadway, he noticed Tasha Yar walking into a karate establishment across the street. He hadn't noticed her going anywhere other than her work at a nearby bar and grill, before.

Though they'd been living in the same apartment in Kansas City since being stranded there two months earlier, neither really paid much attention to what the other did, anymore. They came and went, and didn't say much to each other, having allowed their differences to set them apart.

* * *

**Friday, May 25, 2007**

Two days later, Will returned to the karate school during his lunch break, hoping Tasha would be there. And she was, pummeling a full-size punching bag that hung from the ceiling. Already drenched with sweat from working out, she still delivered powerful punches and kicks, over and over. Captain Picard hadn't been kidding when he told Will about her fighting abilities. She was lethally good, even when she insisted she was out of shape.

She had tied a strip of fabric around her head as a sweatband, and her hands were heavily taped. Athletic tape encircled her right leg in a band, just beneath her knee, though she'd never complained of any soreness or injury there (at least, not to Will). Then again, after Will had told her to shut up last month, she hadn't complained about much of anything.

Will left his shoes in one of the cubby holes near the door, then stood in the entryway for a few minutes, watching as she worked out, certain she didn't know he was there. But he was wrong.

She knew.

After a few minutes, she stepped backward away from the bag, stopping its impact-driven movement with both her hands, then turned around and nodded in his direction.

"How'd you know I was here?" she asked, breathing hard.

"I saw you go in while I was walking to work the day before yesterday."

"Oh, all right," she didn't seem concerned. She seemed right in her element, actually.

The studio seemed ancient to Will, with old-style mats and body armor. But the helmets looked similar to what was used even in the 24th century. She stepped to the edge of the room toward a water fountain and took a quick drink.

"I just needed to burn off some steam," she said. It was the most meaningful thing she'd said to him in two weeks.

"I can believe that," he responded, with understanding. It made sense. "I didn't know you'd joined a gym."

"It's a dojo, not a gym," she said, walking back to the punching bag.

Somewhat chagrined, Will nodded after being reminded that the practice of martial arts is not a workout. It is a discipline, and a practice.

"Yeah, a couple of weeks ago. I had to do something. I was going out of my mind. I don't want to get too out of shape."

"You could have told me you'd spent money on a gym membership," he said, an edge cutting into his voice.

She glanced at him, and then wiped her brow with her shirtsleeve. _Here we go,_ she thought, her defensive shields going up. _He's here to pick a fight._

"And you could have told me that you were buying drinks for you and your dates at Kelly's on your way home from work," she came back, and he was busted on that one. The Irish-themed bar and adjoining pizza joint was a popular hangout . . . and right on Will's way home from his job at the grocery store.

He held his hands out from his sides. "All right," he said. "Is that how it is?"

"I'm doing what I need to do, you do what you need to do," she replied, delivering a particularly hard left jab at the bag. "I don't care. But don't throw a $60 per month membership tab back at me when you're eating and drinking out."

"I stop at one," he said.

"Good for you," she replied. "Sounds like you're adjusting just fine."

He shook his head. This was going nowhere.

"Is this what we were meant to do?" she said, striking the bag every few seconds, and struck up a false greeting "'Hi, what may I get for you? Frozen or on the rocks? Would you like _cheese_ on that?'"

She threw two shin kicks, then backed off the bag.

"I hate cheese," she said, breathing hard.

"Tasha," he replied. "Take a break from hating the world, all right?"

"Or maybe this is some team-building thing," she mused, choosing not to respond to what he'd just said. "I'd never heard of one taking this long, before."

"You're too suspicious," he replied. "It's getting old."

"I'm doing my job," she said, and then muttered. "Well, it used to be my job."

"I think your identity as an ass-kicking security chief was the only thing holding you together on the _Enterprise_," he said.

"Ouch," she said, but he could tell it affected her. Deep down, she knew he was right.

"And I think you need to quit feeling sorry for yourself and enjoy the good parts of being here," he added.

Breathing hard, Tasha reached out to stop the bag from swinging, wanting badly to just talk, just be the one who gave in for a change to open a dialogue. _Even if we're fighting, we'd at least be talking,_ she thought.

"And those good parts are?" she finally asked, but she hadn't intended to sound as sarcastic as she did. _That came out wrong,_ she thought.

"I am not getting sucked into this, Tasha," he said, throwing his hands up. "I was using up my lunch break to come in here and say hello."

"I'm brainstorming!" she turned to look at him. "I'm trying to—."

Her eyes betrayed desperation but he wasn't looking much beyond his own reactions. He no longer cared how she'd take something. He turned to leave.

"Would you give this world a break from it?" Will shouted over his shoulder as he grabbed his shoes and pulled the door open to leave without even putting his shoes on. "Just keep on kicking a bag if it makes you feel better. Enjoy yourself. If you're so determined to hurt someone, I don't want it to be me."

* * *

**Saturday, May 26, 2007, 0215 hours**

She went to work that night and did her best to put on a happy barmaid face, and for the first time, she dreaded last call until it occurred to her that she didn't need to go back to the apartment.

By 0215, she stood on Main Street, waiting for a bus to take her anywhere else. She had enough money with her for bus fare. _What's Will going to do about it, anyway? It's not like he can scan the planet have me beamed to his office so he can yell at me._ She'd stay elsewhere, give him a few days to cool off, and then try speaking with him, again. It was all she could do when he was being such a hardheaded ass.

Rain came pouring down as she stood on the road beneath the bus stop sign. She still had no idea where she'd go. She supposed she'd hop off the bus when she felt like it. _Where the hell is that bus?_ she thought.

Twenty long minutes later, the bus lumbered up the road. Tasha left the bus shelter so the driver could see she was waiting and stop. But the bus passed her by, spraying her with water that had pooled in the gutter nearby. Tasha spent two fleeting seconds of speechlessness, water pouring down her face, her clothes drenched.

"Thanks, asshole!" she finally shouted as the driver blew the yellow light at 43rd street, and then flushed with embarrassment not at what she said, but that she'd said it at all. _When did it get so hard for me to control my temper?_

The temperature was plummeting, portending another frigid night. So she returned to the apartment, intending to sneak quietly in, grab dry clothes and a blanket, and leave before Will woke up. But she wasn't so lucky.

"Enjoy your cool-off walk in the rain?" Will asked, startling her in the darkness. She hadn't heard him stirring, and wondered if he was waiting up for her.

"Not really," she replied, not even looking at him as he sat up from his corner of the room. She started stuffing clothes into her backpack. "Sir," she added.

"What are you doing?" he said, sitting up in the corner of the room.

"I'm staying someplace else for the night."

"No you aren't," Will said. "We need to stay together—."

"Oh, in case we're 'found', finally, after _two months?_" she said, and she could feel a dangerous tinge of fury rise within her, the type of anger that had gotten her into trouble, before. She tended to run her mouth when she was mad, and often regretted it later.

But right now, she didn't care.

"Where are you going?"

"Anywhere but here," she replied.

"Returning to your roots, huh?" he said, sarcasm practically oozed through everything he said. "They say we all go home eventually. So, what, am I going to find you drugged up on a street corner sometime soon?"

She had just stood up to leave, but paused, staring across the room at him. Her eyes were accustomed enough to the dark that she had no trouble seeing him.

"Are you using, again?" he asked.

"No! Absolutely not," she replied, indignant.

"Thought I'd ask, since past behavior is the best predictor of future behavior," he said. "I wondered when you'd fall back on former career you've bragged about in those pity parties you used to throw for yourself aboard the _Enterprise_, talking about how much worse you had it than anyone else."

She could feel her face flushing red. _He doesn't know what he's talking about,_ she thought, but that passed as her anger rose. "You don't know anything about it—"

"Would you just stop? That former street urchin act had gotten really, really old, and I'd appreciate if you just dropped—"

"Well, you aren't the one to be talking!" she replied, raising her voice. "How many sluts have YOU picked up since we've been here?" _I wonder if he'll get the hidden connotation,_ she thought. _I'd bet not._

"What did you just say?" he nearly shouted.

"You heard it!"

"That is NONE of your business!" he flipped on the light. Both of them squinted temporarily at the sudden brightness, but neither stopped their attacks on each other.

"Of course it's my business!" she threw it right back at him, and suddenly Will knew why Picard had chosen her as his security chief. She wasn't afraid to go there with people, no matter how uncomfortable it might make her, or anyone else. "You're bringing unknown people into our apartment. That's a big security issue. And then there's the revolving door issue with these women—"

"Now, wait a minute—!"

"—always someone different, too," Tasha shot back. "I'm not stupid! And you're getting after me for leaving my shoes lying around when you can't even clean up after your date when she uses one of the towels, which was my towel, as a floor chuck for the two of you!"

"I didn't know she did that—," he was stammering, now, and somewhat chastened at the ferocity of this attack. Tasha was winning this one.

"—course not! You were occupied! It was left hanging up on the towel rack," she was shouting, now, so angry that she was red in the face. "Thank you for leaving a crusty bath towel for me to dry my hair after I took a shower the next morning! Even I was disgusted by that!"

"Jealous," he said. He could think of nothing else to say after she fired off the towel remark, but this was what it was about, right? "When was the last time _you_ went out on a date, or did anything other than hang around the worst neighborhood in town?"

"I am NOT jealous of your one-night stands," she shouted back. "Or one-hour stands. They couldn't have stayed much longer. How impressed could they really be? We don't even have any furniture. And this is far from being the worst neighborhood in town—"

"You didn't answer my question!"

"I don't bring anyone back to this apartment, so it's none of your business!" she yanked the apartment door open just in time to hear their hallway neighbor shouting _'Shut the hell up!'_ through his closed door_._

"Thanks for waking the neighb—," Tasha shouted toward Will, even as she moved toward the open door. But within a second, Will was up close to her, in her face.

"My relationships are none of your business!" he said, not attempting to lower his voice, despite the neighbor's protests.

"If that's the extent of your relationship ability, maybe we should be subletting an hourly rate for you and your dates!" she hissed back, then turned on her heel and walked down the hallway, toward the stairs

"Fuck you!" he shouted, more angry that he could think of no better comeback.

"Not a chance!" she yelled back at him, her words echoing through the hallway as she grabbed the bannister. "You've already fucked half of Westport!"

_Well, that one will get me court-martialed, if we ever make it back to the Enterprise_, she mused as she stomped down the stairs and outside. As she walked outside and past their apartment, she flipped her middle finger towards their kitchen window, just in case he was watching, which he was.

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, 0245 hours, May 26, 2007**

Tasha walked through the street-lit rain, heading toward that first park where she and Will had huddled beneath the picnic shelter two months ago. She was relieved to find it empty.

She crawled beneath the concrete picnic table. But she didn't like that position. It offered some concealment, but the permanently set benches left her cornered. She would have no quick egress, nor a good defensive position. So she scooted out from under the table, and opted to sleep atop one of the benches, instead. It was narrow, but still a better option than sleeping atop the table, where she was more visible. At least here, she'd have room to fight if anyone challenged her being there.

Lying on her back in the cold darkness, she turned her head toward the road, watching raindrops striking the streetlight-illuminated pavement. She could see the backlit blades of grass closer, dancing as the rain struck them.

She could feel herself getting choked up with sudden regret. _Why the hell do I always need to shoot my mouth off, or say anything at all? I could have just left. _

The last time she had felt so despondent was when her younger sister had refused to join her flight for Earth. She had waited first near the cave lifts in hopes that Ishara would change her mind and join her. But she hadn't shown up. Though Ishara never knew her parents, her genetics bore their same independence and stubbornness. She was adamant about staying with her cadre, and no amount of persuasion, guilt-tripping or what was left of the familial bond could pull her from her "new" family with one of the most violent cadres on Turkana.

Tasha finally used the rope-hoist lifts, pulling herself up some 400 feet, to meet a departing smuggler's ship.

She had sat outside in the rain, holding a fire-blackened piece of plastic sheeting as an umbrella in hopes of decreasing her potential radiation dose from Turkana's post-nuclear atmosphere. She waited for two hours with more than a dozen complete strangers, all adults except for a younger teenager who carried a baby with her. When the transport arrived, they numbly got in line, gave their names to a man helping people aboard, and then found a place to sit inside the small shuttle.

Natasha Yar was 15 years old, illiterate and unable to speak Standard. But she had a keen understanding that she wanted much more from her life.

She had been sick to her stomach during the flight up to the larger ship waiting in orbit behind one of Turkana's moons. But she hadn't eaten in days, so all she could do was dry-heave her way through the first flight she'd ever taken. Once aboard a larger ship, she was sold to Federation personnel who were operating undercover in an effort to rescue as many Turkana residents as possible.

Tasha learned later that smugglers had deviated from selling evacuees to prostitution rings only for the financial contributions from Federation operatives, which paid four times what the slave trade offered. Turkana's cadres didn't get along under the best of circumstances, but they were united wanting the Federation to stay out of their business. They severed all relations by threatening death to any Federation member who by accident or intention chose to land or beam down to the planet.

The traffickers didn't take sides: They only were interested in payment. But it didn't take long for the Turkanan cadres to learn smugglers were delivering "their people" to the Federation. Tasha had taken an awful chance, trusting Ishara with information about the ships. Only one week after her rescue, cadres were waiting for the next group of ships to arrive at the same location. They shot down all four shuttles, and murdered every Turkanan national waiting for them.

Now on Earth, Tasha huddled, rainsoaked and uncomfortable, beneath a darkened park shelter, nearly as angry at Will Riker as she had been at Ishara, though for far different reasons. Will was her only link to her century, but their hailing frequencies had closed.

She calmed down by planning her next move. She'd go to work that night, as usual, and until then could work on finding someplace else to stay, at least temporarily. Lulled by the soft sound of raindrops in the trees around the picnic shelter, she dozed off with her arm up over her face.

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, 0345 hours**

Someone was saying her name. Inwardly, she startled awake, but forced calm over herself. She was sleeping on her back, with her knees drawn up so her back wouldn't scream in pain when she stood up, again. The rain had stopped, but it was still dark and silent, early morning. Steam rose from concrete roads still warm from yesterday's sun.

She turned her head sideways slightly, and saw Will Riker crouched nearby, his face was at the same level as hers.

Still, he kept his distance, afraid that she would punch him in the face when she saw him. He was treating her as a loose cannon, no matter what rank they were supposed to be in the future, or in one possible future.

"Hey," he said.

She screwed her eyes shut and briefly turned away. _What the hell is he doing out here?_

"I was worried about you," he said, as if he heard what she'd been thinking.

She pushed upright, rubbing her eyes. Tasha didn't feel as if much time had passed at all, and her instincts were correct. She'd been there barely half an hour.

"I'm fine," she remarked. She stood up, then pivoted around to sit on the bench and lean back against the picnic table. She looked horrible, as if she hadn't slept in weeks. Dark circles fanned out beneath her eyes, and she looked more pale than usual.

"We need to work this out," Will said, and he almost sounded as if he were pleading, instead of commanding one of his subordinates, as if he were more afraid of alienating his audience instead of being confident that his orders would be followed.

"I don't even know what I should say to you, anymore," she replied. "Do you want me to be official, again? I can do that. Or I can be honest. It's up to you."

"You tell me," he said. "It's not a trick question."

She let out a deep sigh. She had been jarred out of what she had thought was a sound sleep, though in her mind she knew she hadn't slept well since her last night on the _Enterprise_. She hadn't had time to steel herself, especially against her knee-jerk response to the flippant remark he made next.

"Picard would be disappointed if we killed each other while we were here," he said.

"Well, that was helpful," she muttered, standing up.

"I figured smartass was the only thing you'd listen to, lieutenant!" Will shouted. "Sit down! We're going to have a civil discussion without letting the entire neighborhood in on it."

Instinctively, she sank back onto the bench.

"We can't keep arguing in circles about nothing, and then wind up right back where we started, only more pissed off at each other, which shouldn't be happening!" he continued, then forced calm over his voice.

He sat beside her, and she looked away but didn't move over.

"Now I know why you were promoted to security chief," he said. "You don't take anything from anybody. I appreciate the kind of person who isn't afraid to call me on things that I need to change, because I haven't been handling this very well, at all. I just wish you had more _tact._"

She leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees again, kept her face turned away from him and didn't make a sound as he kept talking. He was right about the tact. He was always right about that part.

"If this had been a management scenario, it would rival the Kobayashi Maru," he said, hoping she was listening, this time, instead of plotting her latest comeback outburst. "And I really blew it. I'm disappointed in myself for not handling the situation better, and for telling you to shut up when you were only encouraging honest discussion. And I apologize for not intervening before things festered and got so bad a few hours ago.

"So, I'm sorry for letting you down, and not listening to you. I should be listening to you, and not only from a security perspective. We're both stuck here, we're alone here, we don't know why and we don't know if we'll ever make it back. But you're letting me down, too, Tash. I'm disappointed that you can't seem to see the good things that are here."

She heard every word he said. Most upsetting by far was his pronouncement that she'd let him down. As angry at him as she was, he was still her senior officer. When he said she'd let him down, he might as well have stabbed her in the heart.

"We're on a new mission, at this point," Will said, dredging his commanding tone from what seemed like a faraway place. "We can keep focusing on the unknown, and on that day when or if we either are rescued, or somehow find a way out of here. Or we can focus instead on what we can control. We've got to find some good, or this place is going to eat both of us alive, and we're both strung-out, already. What I said as you left the apartment was very inappropriate, and I apologize. So, a new start, OK?"

_In other words,_ she thought, _we both ran our mouths, let's call it even and move on._

"Sir, I'm sorry for the things I said," Tasha said. Her voice was hoarse from having slept outside in the rain, but also from that dreaded tightening in her throat. She waited a few seconds, collecting her reserve in case she lost her composure. "What you do with yourself is none of my business."

"What's been happening, here?" Will replied. "I can't read your mind. Whatever it is, I haven't been dealing with it very well. So, just tell me."

She couldn't look at him, but she did have plenty to say.

"All the things about this society that seem to repulse you and offend you . . . those are things that I grew up doing because I wanted to live," she continued, staring at her feet_._ "We all have our reasons."

"Selling drugs?" he asked, figuring that was as bad as it got.

"Selling myself," she said after a few seconds passed.

The meaning hit Will like a sledgehammer. He stared at her. _"What?"_

"To keep what was left of my family together," Tasha said, and she couldn't believe she was discussing it, at all. "For all the good that did," she added, under her breath, then glanced up, nodding toward a woman walking slowly across the steamy, street-lit pavement to stand on an adjacent corner, in hopes of attracting more business. "She's got her reasons, I had my reasons. No one does that unless they believe there are no other choices. In the environment I was in, I had _no other choice_."

Will said nothing in response, just let her talk.

"So, now you know that the _Enterprise_ has—well, they _had_—a formerly drug-addicted, child prostitute as its security chief," she added, numbly at first, trying to swallow the lump rising in her throat. _Well, shit,_ she thought. _The last thing I need right now is to lose my composure._ "So, when you judge these people, you're judging me, too. And I didn't just shut up because you gave me a direct order. I got the impression that you didn't care to understand how things are in some places. You didn't want to hear about it. It's very difficult for me to speak with someone who's stopped listening because he thinks he's right about everything."

The streetlight closest to them illuminated tears of shame that had begun filling her eyes.

"And there's no such thing as a new start when you're in the same situation," she continued, her voice wavering. "At the end of the day, you're still stuck with all those things that you're not proud of. And you're stuck pretending to agree with people who don't know what the hell they're talking about, because it's easier to keep the peace than it is to be honest, even if it made me sick to my stomach hearing all this judgmental rhetoric coming from you."

"Tasha, I'm sorry," he finally said, swallowing an impulse to say '_why didn't you tell me?_' "I honestly had no idea . . ."

"I don't want your pity," she said. "I just wanted you to know. So, now you know." She took a deep breath in a vain attempt to keep from crying, but ultimately stood up. "Excuse me," she whispered, her voice breaking as she shouldered her duffel bag and walked away from him, onto the rain-soaked grass.

She laced her fingers behind the back of her neck and turned her face skyward, looking up rain-drenched tree branches that glistened in the moonlight. The clouds had cleared away and the moon, while not yet full, still was brilliant. Mortified that she'd just lost her composure in front of anyone (especially Will Riker), she picked up her pace and began walking out of the park, hoping that Will would take the hint and leave her alone. She didn't want him seeing her like this.

But he did follow her, striding to catch up and then walking beside her.

"I'm trying to pull myself back together, maybe retain some shred of what's left of my dignity," she said, jamming her hands into her coat pockets and turning her face away from him, even as she kept walking. "And you're not helping."

"Maybe that was the point," he replied.

She slowed her pace, finally stopping just shy of the sidewalk.

"You were _deliberately_ trying to break me down?" she muttered, scrubbing her face against the back of her shirtsleeve. "Thanks a lot."

"Not deliberately," Will said. "But I knew that when we finally talked about everything, you'd either break down, or you'd leave me bleeding in the bushes over there."

Despite herself, she shook her head and finally cracked a smile.

"I wouldn't have thrown you into the bushes," she finally said.

"That's good to know," he said. _That's the first time I've seen her smile since we were stranded here,_ he thought.

"No, I would have left you on that sidewalk," she replied, nodding toward the nearest street corner. "Right there, under the streetlight so someone could have seen you, and called for an ambulance."

She glanced back at him, and even through her swimming eyes he could see that she was kidding.

"Well, thank you," Will replied, grinning back, even as she crossed her arms in front of her and looked at the ground again. "And again, I apologize," he said.

"I apologize for crying like a damn kid," she muttered.

"It's OK," he replied.

"It's unprofessional," she said.

"It's understandable," he said.

"And I'm sorry that I let you down," she said, her voice somewhat muffled.

"Water under the bridge," he whispered, and that nearly did her in. She used every shred of her remaining self-control to suppress a looming breakdown.

For the first time in his life, Will Riker felt a bit like a failure. He was supposed to be the tough and all-together First Officer, the strong backup. But this situation had established a weakness. He could run a ship of military personnel and their families, but he hadn't been able to adequately handle a fellow senior staff member when they were both out of their elements.

"Let's go home," he said after a few seconds. "We'll figure it out, all right?"

Tasha drew in another breath, and let it out calmly, nodding. They weren't OK, yet, but they were getting there. Will thought briefly about slipping one arm around her shoulders as they began walking toward the apartment, but ultimately decided not to. _Too soon,_ he thought. _Too much was said before, and not enough has been said now._

"When was the last time you actually got any sleep?" he asked, instead.

"Back on the _Enterprise_," she replied.

They glanced at each other at the same time, and suddenly it all seemed so funny that they both began laughing.

"Pathetic, huh?" she said.

"Yeah, that's not a good sign," Will said, shaking his head but smiling all the same. "I suppose I should be grateful that you were too tired to kick my ass."

"This night isn't over, yet," she said, another grin spreading across her face. "I may be getting my second wind."

"Well, I'll do my best not to enrage you," he said.

Her professed burst of energy lasted just long enough for her to collapse in their apartment shortly after they walked inside ten minutes later. While Will was using the bathroom, she lay down in her corner of the bedroom, and passed out before she could even remove her shoes.

It was still dark outside, but dawn was approaching. Will would need to be at work in less than two hours. He knew he'd be exhausted that day, but was grateful that he'd caught up with Tasha, and hoped things would only get better from here. He lay down on his side of the room and watched her sleep for a few minutes before he, too, joined her in slumber.


	6. Chapter 6

**Future's Past, part 6**

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, May 26, 2007**

For the first time since moving into the apartment, Tasha didn't jar awake to the battery-operated alarm that Will had set to go off at 0500 hours on mornings he had to be at work.

Will had only gotten an hour of sleep since he returned from having retrieved Tasha Yar from a nearby park, after a nasty, boiling-point fight they'd had earlier. Now she was curled up on her side with her back to the wall as always, but more relaxed than he'd ever seen her before. It looked as if she hadn't budged since she fell asleep there.

_I hope she doesn't have anywhere she needs to be, this morning, _he thought. _She needs to sleep. She looks like she hasn't slept in months._

She still hadn't stirred by the time he left for work. This was a Saturday, so she wouldn't have been disturbed by the usual, weekday morning cacophony of the upstairs neighbors and their 0600 wake-up-for-school routine, nor even the motorcyclist who lived down the street and revved up his bike on weekday mornings.

Tasha finally woke around noon as sunlight streamed into the windows. Initially, she didn't believe she'd actually slept for eight hours until she stood up, and seemingly every joint in her body screamed out in agony. She had crashed hard, and wasn't used to being in one position for long.

It was too late for her to make her time slot at the karate dojo, so she took what she at first intended to be a quick shower. But even before she stepped into the warm water, memories of what had transpired the night before washed over her. And it was in the shower that the tears returned, albeit silently and while the water was running so no one could hear her.

* * *

**43rd Place Bar and Grill, 2300 hours**

When Will returned from his shift at the store at 1500, Tasha had left for work. As he'd anticipated, he was absolutely exhausted after an all-day produce truck marathon on one hour of sleep. The deliveries were non-stop, and Saturday produce sales kept him busy with restocks. He'd only taken five minutes for lunch, and his manager hadn't taken a lunch break at all, which made Will respect him more than he already did. The guy was studying for an accounting degree while managing the produce department. He made no excuses and made sure his employees had their breaks even if he didn't get to take them.

After Will arrived back at the apartment, he napped for several hours, then awoke and opted to visit Tasha's workplace, 43rd Place Bar & Grill. He barely knew where it was, and found it only after hearing muffled music from up the street.

It was 2300 hours, and the band had one more hour in their set. The crowd seemed jovial, friendly, winding down. Most of the patrons were Will and Tasha's age, the working crowd, as opposed to the Westport crowd that mostly were college age, or underage.

Will found a place at the bar, and sat down just as he saw Tasha meandering through the crowd with a wad of money in her hand. She darted behind the bar, operated the cash register to put the money into it, and noticed Will sitting at the other end of the bar. She had to look twice, at first, then walked toward him, holding the empty drink tray against her hip. She looked surprisingly happy, glowing, as if she'd actually slept the night before and might actually be enjoying herself at work. Over her clothes, she wore a short apron tied around her waist, with pockets for a notepad, pens and napkins.

"Hi," he said, grinning broadly.

"Hi," she replied, and actually smiled. "What can I get for you?"

He looked at the bottles of swill on the wall, the suds on tap, and only recognized Budweiser. "Ah . . . surprise me!"

Now she really smiled, a bit entertained. "Surprise you?" she said, nearly laughing. "What are you in the mood for?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I've only tried Budweiser."

"I'll put it another way," she said, her expression wry. "Do you want something refreshing, or do you want to fall over?"

"Refresh me, please," Will said, handing her a $5 bill.

So she asked the bartender for a Boulevard Wheat, one of Kansas City's local brands.

"You guys know each other?" asked one of the bartenders, as he passed the glass to Will.

Tasha turned. "We're roommates," she said.

"Oh yeah?" the bartender replied, extending his hand. "You must be Will. I'm Gary. Nice to finally meet you."

* * *

The band had long-since packed up, and Will's hearing was returning to normal. He was having a good time, chatting with a man seated next to him about local politics. The guy said he used to work at city hall before retiring last year, and Will learned a great deal about the city's interesting political history. The politics of 2007 were petty compared to what had happened in years past. Will was thoroughly intrigued.

For the first hour that Tasha was there, she was too busy serving and then cleaning up to pay much attention to what Will Riker was doing. He seemed to be having an OK time. He was chatting with a bar regular, a nice guy who whose son played in the band performing that night. Dad tried not to miss a single show.

Most of the crowd filed out shortly after the band stopped playing. The guitarist's dad bade Will goodbye and departed with the band, leaving Will alone at the bar, wondering whether he should go back to the apartment or wait another hour for Tasha to clock out.

"You guys have a fight, or something?" Gary remarked quietly to Tasha as she returned down the stairs with a tray full of glasses to take to the kitchen. "He's acting sorry."

Tasha raised her eyebrows. "He might be," she remarked, glancing over her shoulder at Will, who had stood up and was walking around the lower level, looking at the posters on the wall, photos of bartenders and patrons celebrating, photos of famous patrons who had graced the establishment since it opened in the 1950s. "He's never stopped by, before. You read that well."

"I'm a bartender!" Gary replied, smiling. He didn't need to try hard to appear amiable. He came about it naturally, having learned not to sweat the small stuff during his 45 years of life. "I'm supposed to help drown sorrows. So, how long have you been going out?"

"Oh, we're not dating," Tasha said. "We're just roommates."

"Just buddies?" he replied. "I figured you were a couple."

"Nope."

"Hey, you know I don't want to get in your business," Gary said. "But if you want to clock out early and have a drink with your friend, that's fine. We're so dead in here and you're already over on hours."

"It's OK?"

"Yeah, it's OK!" he replied. "First one's on me. What sounds good?"

"I'll have what Will's having."

"You got it."

"Thanks, Gary," she said, and disappeared into the back to hang up her apron and clock out.

* * *

"Want to sit down?"

Will turned at the sound of Tasha's voice, and saw her standing beside him, holding a full glass of beer. She was wearing her jacket and her apron was gone.

"Gary's letting me leave early," she explained.

Will nodded. "That was nice of him," he remarked.

"He's the one who hired me," Tasha said.

"He's a good judge of character," Will said, sitting down at a table near the far wall of the bar. She took the adjacent seat, then raised her glass to tap his.

"Cheers," she said, then took a long drink. "That's good stuff."

"Well, that is the first drink I believe you've ever had with me," Will said. "Must be a special occasion."

"We're not yelling at each other or taking low blows, or dropping f-bombs, threatening each other with physical violence. . ." she trailed off. "You must have been exhausted at work, today."

"Yeah, I was, but I had more important things to do the night before."

"Thanks for coming out in the rain and finding me," she said.

"Thanks for being at the first place I looked, so I didn't get too waterlogged."

"On that note, thanks for not being too horrified that I lost my composure."

"Thanks for not beating me up," he said, smiling.

"You're welcome," she said, and they looked at each other for the first time since she'd sat down, and smiled, even laughed a bit.

* * *

"—don't want to lose my edge," she was saying. "That's my biggest fear, I guess. I don't know how to do anything else."

"What do you mean by that?" Will asked.

"Well, you said it earlier, and you were right," she replied. "Being a security chief was the only identity I had on the _Enterprise_. I fight for a living. I secure scenes. I go in when everything else has fallen apart, and gain control. I was a career ass-kicker."

"You're also one of the most superb tactical officers I've ever known," Will remarked.

"Thanks," she replied.

Losing her edge or not, he was delighted to see her loosening up, laughing about things that actually were funny. They'd talked for awhile, and he'd asked about karate.

"I joined the dojo because I need to keep my skills up," she said. "I'm learning some new skills. I hadn't taken much karate, so that's new."

"How do you like it?" Will asked.

"I like the discipline of it," Tasha said. "It's different, a lot of meditation."

"I was in karate for six years," Will said. "I had a brown belt."

She smiled. "I didn't know that!"

"It's been a long time," he said.

"You should come to the dojo, sometime," she said.

"Maybe I will," Will said. "I'd probably need to start over. But I'm rusty for a lot of other reasons. Stacking cantaloupes isn't the most stimulating management task."

Despite herself, Tasha smiled and shook her head. "No, it's not," she said.

"Maybe I could start juggling them, and they'll give me a raise," he said.

Now she laughed outright. "I'd buy tickets to that show," she replied.

"You'd what?"

"I'd buy tickets—it's an expression I heard tonight, here," she said. "I need to remember to write it in the book once we get back to the apartment."

"You learned a non-profane expression?" Will remarked. "What's it mean?"

She attempted her best, academic explanation. "It means that what you're proposing to do with those cantaloupes might be entertaining enough to be profitable," she said.

"But if I dropped one of them, would they get their ticket money back?"

"Probably not," she said.

"That's way too much pressure for peak performance," he remarked. "What about buying tickets just to watch the attempt?"

"I guess that's what it meant," she replied.

"You know something?" he said.

She looked at him.

"You're fitting in just fine," he said. "While you were hauling liquor up and down the stairs, I had a chance to chat with your manager. Gary had good things to say about you. He said you work your ass off and never complain. They like you, but they want you to loosen up."

She looked down at the table.

"I hope you're still listening to me," he said.

"I am," she said.

"OK, so just listen," he said. "You've only got one life to live, and I don't want to see you wasting that by being suspicious and pissed off all the time. Just enjoy your life. Enjoy the fun parts, and try not to think too much about what came before. Have some fun. In fact, we should both have more fun. We need to do two things: We need to stop living on the floor and get some furniture, and we should do some exploring around this city on our days off."

"I'll agree on both goals," she replied. "It sounds like fun."

"Does it really?"

"It does!"

"Like what?" he asked.

"Something where we're outside," she replied. "Even just going for a walk sounds great."

"How about catching a baseball game?" he said.

"What, a Royals baseball game?"

"Yeah, we could catch the bus to the stadium and back."

"All right, let's go," she said.

"Right now, I'm going back to the apartment, primarily because I'm about to pass out. What did you serve me?"

"I was just beer, Boulevard Wheat," she said, smiling a little. "Not even the hard stuff."

"If you'd given me the hard stuff, I probably wouldn't have made it home."

"That's why there's a wheelbarrow hanging up near the bar," Tasha said. "They used to use it to dump drunks outside the door, and now we have to call EMS if they're that far gone. I don't think you'd have that problem. You're what we call the cheap drunk."

"What?" he said. "Since when am I a cheap drunk?"

"You had two beers, Will," she said.

"Yeah, that was a lot."

"Not even close."

"That's a lot of liquid to be ingesting," Will said.

"But it's not a lot of alcohol," she replied. "We get people who drink several times that number of beers, and they walk out standing straight up."

"How can they do that?"

"People come in on their 21st birthday and they celebrate it by drinking too much," she said. "People aren't considered "legal" until they turn 21, as if that makes much of a difference. But now that they're legal, they drink whatever they want, and it doesn't matter. They're going to throw it all up in three hours, anyway."

Will made a face. "Oh my God, what the point?"

"I'm trying to figure that out," she said.

* * *

"Will, if I tell you something, I don't want you to be disappointed," she said as they were walking back to the apartment.

Streetlights illuminated their route. It was cool outside, enough to need a coat. Tasha was glad she'd brought her jacket to work, today. But to Will, the 55-degree temperatures felt great. He was glad to be in shirtsleeves.

"What is it?" he asked, amiably. She was a sharp read on this. What better time to say something to one's commanding officer, than to lay bad news on him when he was too buzzed to do anything about it?

"Well, two things," she said. "Gary has asked me to play on some sports team the bar sponsors. Something called softball, which is similar to baseball. Saturday mornings. I told him I'd never played before but he said that was all right, he wants me to play, anyway. So I said, sure, I'd play. Actually, it sounds like a lot of fun."

"It does sound like fun!" Will said. "I think it's a good thing."

"And I've applied to volunteer at Reconciliation," she added.

"I know," he replied.

She stopped walking and stared at him.

"I got the receipt," he said. "You sent off a criminal record request, and the receipt came back to our address. I knew you were thinking about doing something. I just didn't know what it was."

"It's OK?"

"Absolutely it's OK," he said. " I knew you were doing something, and I knew you'd tell me the reason why when you felt comfortable."

"You're not upset?"

"Not at all," he replied. "Why would you think I'd be upset?"

"I guess I misunderstood," she replied. "I won't be making any money. I just wanted to help out. And I'm glad that the identity you swiped for me had no criminal record."

"I think it's a great idea," Will said. "Both the shelter and the church, too?"

"Just the shelter."

"That church reminds me of some of the Russian Orthodox churches in Alaska," Will remarked. "The outside is different, obviously. But the interior, the sanctuary, was very similar. Did you ever go up there?"

She shook her head. "No," she said, her expression impassive. "My family was Orthodox. My grandmother used to take me with her to the church on Turkana, but I don't remember a whole lot. I was very young."

"After what I'd heard about your home world, I hadn't figured it to be a religious place," he remarked.

"It was until the cadres blew up the churches," she said. "But before that, religion was very much a part of our society, at least the part that I was around before everything fell apart."

"Are you a believer?" Will asked, not sure if he was digging too deep, too soon. He hoped he wasn't.

She shrugged, looking off in the distance as they walked. "No," she finally replied. "I believe in Starfleet."

"Can I tell you something?" Will said, shortly after they arrived back at the apartment.

"Sure," she replied.

"I just wanted to say thank you," he said. "We wouldn't have made out this well if it weren't for you. If I'd been tossed into this century by myself, I'd probably have perished with the unfit, as embarrassing as it is to admit that."

She shook her head. "Give yourself some credit," she replied. "You would have been all right."

"No, I wouldn't have," he said. "I would have asked too many questions, and wound up in jail," he said. "And I'd have starved before digging through the trash for food."

"You only got sick once," she said.

"And that was enough," he remarked. "Why your customers pay to throw up later is beyond me."

She laughed outright. "It's beyond me, too."

"Come here," he said, pulling her into a quick, sideways hug as they stood there in the main room of their apartment. She hadn't anticipated this, but nonetheless went with it, and after a second she returned the embrace.

"I'm glad we could talk," he said. "Better days ahead, OK?"

She nodded against his shoulder.

"Thank you," she said.

* * *

**Pennway Park, Kansas City, Missouri, Monday, June 4, 2007**

Will's fingers laced through the chain-link fence separating the edge of the softball bullpen from the spectators. Tasha turned at the sound of his voice calling her name. She was wearing a team t-shirt and her customary capri pants, but her entire front was streaked with dirt.

"What happened to you?" he asked.

"I tried sliding into base," she replied, sounding irritated with herself.

"Did you make it?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. Even her neck was streaked with fine dust, though she'd wiped her face off. She looked disgusted and embarrassed, and of course, Will had to smile a bit. He heard the metallic clink of an aluminum bat smacking a softball, coupled with cheers from sparse crowds gathered on rickety, metal bleachers nearby.

"Nah, it's foul," said one of Tasha's co-workers, a 20-something named Shaun who was putting himself through pharmacy school by working as a bartender. He stood at the bullpen door, waiting for his turn at bat. But Shaun had to laugh when Tasha described the fate that had befallen her as she tried to stylize a desperation-bid to reach first-base after tapping the ball to the shortstop.

"It was the most priceless moment," Shaun remarked, a smile spreading across his face. "She slid on her face to a stop about a yard away from first base. We were busting our guts. And the first baseman had caught the ball, so he just stepped over and tagged her on the head. God, that was funny!"

"Thank you, Shaun," Tasha muttered. "I have dirt down my shirt, down my shorts . . . I was so close. . ."

"Not that close," Shaun remarked, laughing. "At least the dirt scored, right?"

Despite himself, Will began laughing, too.

"So, did Gary talk with you about playing?" Shaun asked Will, and nodded toward the field, where Gary stood on second base, hoping to be driven in by the latest batter, the 43rd's part-time cook. "His wife sprained her knee at work yesterday and we'll need to withdraw if we don't have another outfielder."

"I've never played softball, before," Will replied.

"That hasn't stopped anybody," Shaun said. "Look what happened to Tasha. If she weren't here, we'd have had no comic relief tonight. Seriously, I still can't believe someone as athletic as her never played softball, before. And you haven't played, either?"

Will shook his head.

Tasha had turned her baseball cap backward on her head, again.

"You look like a gangbanger, wearing your hat like that," Shaun remarked.

"I can't see anything with that thing on the front," she remarked, touching the bill of the hat that now hung off the back of her head.

"You need to wear it correctly when you're fielding, so it'll keep the sun out of your eyes when you look up to catch a fly ball," Shaun said. "Otherwise you'll catch the ball with your face."

"You know, what you just said is really not the greatest recruitment speech for a potential outfielder," Tasha replied, nodding toward Will. "You'll scare him off."

"Are you Will?" someone was saying nearby. He turned and saw a woman standing next to him, with her arm up against the fence. Her long, brunette hair was pulled back from her face and her right knee sported a soft brace. Two little girls stood next to her, and the oldest, who was about 6, waved to Gary through the fence.

"That's me," Will replied.

"I'm Kim, I'm Gary's wife," she said, extending her hand, and Will shook it, noting her firm grip. She was in her late 30s, a bit younger than Gary. "Did Gary hit you up about playing?"

"Not yet, but I've heard the promotion from the team."

"If you're interested in playing, we'd love to have you so we won't need to withdraw from the league," Kim said. "I'm out. I need to have some cartilage sucked out of my knee. I tore my meniscus at work the other day and it just never got better, so I'm out."

"Well, yes, I'm interested," Will replied. "I've never played before, though. I don't have a glove. . ."

"We've got one you can borrow."

* * *

That next Saturday, Will showed up at Pennway Park with a borrowed glove and considerable hesitancy about sliding into base. Gary put him in the outfield, which worked well since Will actually could throw the ball with some strength and accuracy.

Gary was especially glad to see that, because he'd had to break it to Tasha earlier that morning that she 'threw like a girl'.

Her mouth had fallen open in humiliation, protesting. "I do not!" she sputtered, indignant at the pronouncement.

"You do," Gary said, and turned to Will. "She does."

Both irritated and embarrassed, Tasha looked toward Will almost imploring him to stand up for her . . . but he nodded. He'd already seen it. She could always hold her own in martial arts, and had a wicked serve in Parrises Squares. But throwing a softball just didn't come easily for her.

"You do, Tash," Will confirmed, and forced himself not to laugh as he watched her face flush crimson.

"Come on, let's play catch," Shaun said. "We'll work on it. You can hit the hell out of a ball, you just need work throwing it. So the hell what? And I owe you, because you've taught me some self-defense stuff that'll save my life, someday."

"Three-way catch," Will added, walking toward the outfield and tossing the softball to Tasha as he walked. She caught it easily, hoping that she'd get this latest game down before they were rescued.

"Let's play ball!" he added.


	7. Chapter 7

**Future's Past, part 7**

* * *

**Aboard the**_** USS Enterprise, **_**2364**

Jean-Luc Picard was in a quandary. His first officer and security chief were missing from the _Enterprise_.

Both officers were to have reported for a personnel review, and neither appeared. It was highly unlikely they'd left of their own volition. Neither of them possessed an AWOL character.

"Sir, records indicate that neither Commander Riker nor Lt. Yar were transported off the ship, either by our transporter or by one originating off the ship," Data said. "There is no evidence indicating any known type of intruder."

Counselor Troi seemed particularly troubled. Although she typically didn't discuss her previous relationship with Will Riker, everyone aboard knew they had known each other prior to serving aboard the _Enterprise_. And less than one hour earlier, she had sensed from him a flash of panic, and then nothing.

When she attempted contacting him via communicator to make sure he was all right, he didn't answer. She asked the computer to search for his whereabouts, and the computer replied he was no longer aboard the _Enterprise_.

Deanna mentioned this to Captain Picard immediately, adding that she felt certain she had sensed Will because of the bond they shared. But she also knew that the computer was correct: He was no longer aboard the ship. She could feel him nowhere.

They checked the holodecks, and as they were passing through the hall, Worf found Lt. Yar's combadge.

"Sir, she would never have left the ship willingly without her combadge," Worf said.

"I believe, at this point, we should operate on the assumption that they've been taken from the ship," Picard said. "I want a complete diagnostic run, and I want to know if we passed through any anomalies while we were in warp. I don't care how seemingly insignificant."

"Aye, sir," Data and Worf said simultaneously.

* * *

**Mid-June, 2007, Kansas City, Missouri, on Earth **

Warmer weather, coupled with a more open, casual relationship between the Commander Will Riker and Lt. Natasha Yar, had produced a friendship between the two officers. They were on a first-name basis that wasn't forced.

They finally had some furniture, obtained the second weekend in June at either thrift stores or from piles of trash left out at the curbs from houses down the street during the city's annual "junk day" for larger items to be thrown out. What was trash to some homeowners was treasure to others. Will and Tasha weren't the only ones digging through piles at the curb.

Will grabbed two, foldout chairs from one trash pile, and a rickety table from another. They found a couch with quite possibly the ugliest upholstery they'd ever thought possible. The homeowners were carrying outside just as they passed, and neither of them could believe their good fortune. They carried it 6 blocks away to their apartment building, resting intermittently.

"Could be worse," joked one man walking past with his golden retriever on a leash. "Could be a hide-a-bed."

"Oh, no," Will replied, not missing a step. "If it were a hide-a-bed, it would still be there."

"What's a hide-a-bed?" Tasha asked, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she didn't catch her heels on the uneven pavement. She was walking backward.

"It's a couch that has a mattress folded up inside it," he explained. "They're supposed to be very, very heavy."

The couch they'd found was heavy enough, especially after six blocks of walking plus hauling it up the stairs and needing to stand it on its end to maneuver it through their apartment door. Thoroughly exhausted, they called it a night.

The next day, they returned to the thrift shop for two, twin-size mattresses, then had an interesting, 10-block walk that windy afternoon carrying them back to the apartment. Mattresses on the floor weren't anywhere close to optimal, but it was a start. Tasha had grabbed sheets for both beds, and a king-size sheet to throw over the couch as a cover.

* * *

**Late June, 2007**

It hadn't taken long for the stranded Starfleet officers to find things to do in their free time. They tried to plan at least one day per week when they were both not working, so they could take advantage of the various festivals that seemed in more abundance during the warmer months. Most of their free time was spent outside, although Will finally did drag Tasha into the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, and she put on a happy face and went with it, mostly so she could say that she'd been there, and done that.

In addition to playing softball that summer, they had gone to two baseball games, and watched the Royals lose twice before the team's dismal performance in the national playoffs ended the season. Kansas City had a major league team with major management issues, but a loyal following that was just as much fun to watch as the game. Will grumbled about was dropping $7 for a single bottle of light beer at the stadium, which was "outrageous," he'd said. But both he and Tasha had a great time, taking in a sport that didn't exist in the 24th century.

They also learned the hard way about the Midwest's intense sunshine. Tasha wound up with a moderately bad burn on her neck and upper shoulders at the first game. Will had had to talk her out of seeking sunburn relief in the stadium's fountains during the game. They were situated beyond the outfield, and didn't appear to be open for people to take a dip.

She was miserable for two days and got a considerable amount of good-natured ribbing and sympathy from the crowd at the bar where she worked. By then her co-workers and even some of the regulars there had given her a nickname: The Enforcer. It was not misplaced.

* * *

**July 4, 2007**

After reading in the newspaper about a fireworks display at Union Station and the adjacent Liberty Memorial, they returned to the scene of their arrival in this century. They mingled with thousands of people, all wearing red, white and blue to commemorate the July 4th "birthday" of the United States, which seemed like a big deal in the 21st century but all but forgotten by the 24th. The fireworks were real, which was a genuine surprise for both officers, who had been used to holographic displays for various, Federation-based commemorations.

July in Kansas was notoriously hot, and even Tasha was drenched with sweat by the time the fireworks began at 2130 hours. Though she'd let her hair grow longer than it had been on the _Enterprise_, she still preferred it short, off her neck, often held back from her face with a headband. They'd spent so much of their free time outside that the sun had bleached it considerably over the summer.

Will, who had sworn he would never acclimatize to the summers in Kansas City, had spent the evening chugging bottles of water he'd lugged with him in a backpack. He went back and forth to the portable toilets set up for the event while Tasha held their place on the grass.

By that evening, when they were walking to the bus stop, heat cramps had begun knotting his legs up. They hobbled instead to the same convenience store where Tasha had burgled money from a vending machine so many months ago. This time, she purchased Gatorade and an entire package of saltine crackers.

"Here, eat these and drink this," she said, sitting on the curb beside him in front of the store. He was flexing and extending his feet in an attempt to thwart off more cramps. "You've had too much water and not enough salt. You need to replace the sodium that you've sweated off. That's why your legs are cramping. Here, eat these!"

"I don't feel well enough to eat," he replied, practically ignoring the crackers she held.

"Then you'll be stuck here all night," she replied. "Your muscles won't work properly."

"You're sure this will work?"

"It's what we do at The Rec when people come in from the heat and their legs are cramping up. I'm serious."

He didn't feel like eating, but forced himself to do as she said . . . and it _did_ help. Within 30 minutes, he was able to hobble aboard a Metro bus for the remainder of the trip back to the apartment.

From then on, he was more careful to adequately hydrate—and balance his electrolytes. Will, who had never been exposed to temperatures above 33 celsius, was well out of his element in the Kansas City summer.

* * *

**Late September, 2007**

When the weather grew colder, Will decided he'd had enough slicing his face to pieces with 21st century hand-held razors and had grown a short beard. When she realized he was actually going to go for the beard, Tasha jokingly challenged him to grow his beard as long as the Patriarch at Reconciliation's affiliated Orthodox Church. Will respectfully declined.

She volunteered there about once a week, answering phones, sorting items, checking people into the system. They didn't know how to take her, at first, a Caucasian female from out of town who had once accepted help from the Midtown shelter, and was now paying it forward. Midtown was a predominately African American community, but Tasha fit in, in her own way.

In early August, Will had gotten a part-time job as a waiter at a restaurant and jazz club that was only two blocks away from where Tasha worked. He thoroughly enjoyed the atmosphere, and the live music playing. His boss was impressed enough with Will to offer him more hours, and Will was finally able to quit working at the grocery store, where he'd gotten along with people but was bored out of his mind.

_No more early mornings,_ he said to himself. He knew that if they ever made it back to the _Enterprise_, it might prove difficult to get back to his usual 0530 wakeup schedule. _So much for discipline._

* * *

**October 9, 2007**

"You're a much better sick person than I am," Tasha remarked, setting a glass of water down on the table in front of Will, who was in the late-morning throes of a high ragweed count.

Will had known he was allergic to ragweed pollen, but hadn't bothered to get an immuno treatment. Now, he wished he had. Those treatments, which mediated hypersensitivity to allergens, didn't exist in the 21st century, so he was stuck taking over-the-counter medications, which either made him sleepy or hyper, or both. He finally found one antihistamine that was formulated as "non-drowsy", but he'd run out the day before, and hadn't remembered to stop by the pharmacy on his way home.

And now he was paying for it. He had opted to stay home from a morning jog that he and Tasha usually took. Tasha had stopped by the pharmacy and purchased some Zyrtec for him, so he wouldn't be suffering for long. Mornings were the worst for ragweed, he had decided. He looked forward to the city's first freeze of the season, which would kill the ragweed until next year.

"Gary told me that one it freezes, it'll kill the ragweed," she said.

"Another reason to look forward to cold weather," he replied, and despite himself, a humorous memory struck Will as he sat at the kitchen table.

"What's so funny?" Tasha asked.

"I was just remembering that polywater illness we all picked up from the _Tsiolkovsky_," he said. "It was so easy for Beverly to devise an antidote. And she was after me for weeks to get this immuno treatment for the pollens, and I never did. I didn't think I had the time, and now I wish I'd made the time."

Tasha was shaking her head, lost in thought and looking at the table. "The _Tsiolkovsky_ was a really bad situation," she finally said. "So early into our deployment, too."

"It could have been worse," he replied. "We could have all died from a debris strike."

"Thanks to you being able to keep yourself together," Tasha remarked. "You and Wesley Crusher were probably the only people aboard that ship who weren't screwing around."

"_You_ were screwing around?" he asked.

She stared at him.

"Hey, you said it, I didn't," Will remarked.

"Maybe I shouldn't have gone there," Tasha remarked, knowing she'd just run her mouth into trouble, again, and that there wasn't much she'd be able to do to dissuade further discussion. Will's attention was riveted. It was too late.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because, I'm not very proud of how I behaved under the influence," she replied. "I'm just glad you kept it together enough to keep us from being blown apart."

"So, who was it?"

"You aren't going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope."

"You and Deanna need to get back together," Tasha finally said, in a not-well-thought-out, last-ditch effort to change the subject. "The last time I spoke with her she told me y—"

Will was looking at the table, knowing from the get-go that he might never see Deanna again. Neither of them knew when they'd get back to the _Enterprise_, if ever. Too much time had passed.

"I'm sorry," Tasha said after an uncomfortable second. "I opened my mouth before I thought about what I was saying...again. I'm sorry."

"Damn right," Will said. "And just for that, you need to tell me who it was."

Tasha stared at him. "I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"It's personal!"

"So was that little remark about Deanna," Will said. "Twenty questions."

She slumped in her chair and looked at the ceiling.

"Geordi," he guessed.

"No."

"Worf?"

"NO!" she said. "I probably wouldn't be able to walk again, after that."

"How would you know?"

She shot him a dirty look.

"You didn't sleep with Captain Picard, did you?" he asked.

"Good God, Will!"

"Did you?"

"No, absolutely not!"

"Then who was it?" Will pressed, grinning now. "Or was there more than one?"

Tasha looked away, but her expression betrayed a bit of teasing, laughter at an embarrassing memory that was now out in the open.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she said.

"I've got seventeen left . . . Chief Engineer Logan."

She made a face. "No! He's an ass."

"Miles O'Brien."

"No."

"So I'm trying to think of who was missing from the bridge at the same time that you were missing from the bridge . . .you weren't with a woman, were you?"

"I'm hetero," she said, shaking her head and shooting him another glare, even as a grin filtered across her face. "Get that fantasy right out of your mind."

"Okay, that narrows it down . . . Swenson."

"No," she said, after some hesitation.

"But he's good-looking, he's smart . . ."

"I didn't know you looked at him that way!" she sat back up in her chair and smiled broadly at him, delighted that he'd walked right into that one.

And then he got it.

"Wait, I know who it was!" he said. "Data!"

She cast a sideways glance at him, but said nothing.

"Was it really?" he said. "Confirm or deny?"

"I respectfully refuse to comment, sir," she said.

"Lose the sir, please."

"Yes, sir," she said, but she had looked down at the table by then.

"Yes? So, it was Data?" Will said, beginning to laugh.

She was incensed at his laughter, at first. "It's not funny!" she said, but then she cracked a smile, mostly out of humiliation.

"You're turning beet red," he said.

She sighed. "I feel like an idiot."

"You had sex with an android," Will said. "That had to have been incredible. I wonder how much fun his designers had with programming those skills into him."

Tasha fixated on the ceiling.

"And now I know why he said what he said when he got back to the bridge," Will remarked.

"What?" she said, looking at him, again. "What did he say about it?"

"When the crew was falling victim to the virus, Captain Picard initially was relieved to see him back on the bridge, and he said, 'Ah, Data! At least you're functioning'," Will remembered. "And Data said, 'Fully'."

Tasha was horrified. "He did not!" she said, a second flush of humiliation spreading her face.

"Oh, yes he did!"

She hid her face in her hands.

"Why are you so embarrassed?" he said. "It had to have been _quite_ an experience."

"I used a friend for sex!" she said. "And that was an awful thing to have done."

"What's so awful about having a friend with benefits?"

"Well, it's not proper for me to be screwing around with an officer who outranks me. That just complicates things, and leads to conflicts of interest . . ."

"You're both senior staff," he reminded her.

"I don't want anyone to know!"

"Unless Data tells anyone, no one is going to know," he said. "It comes out of Data's mouth or your mouth. But not mine. You have my word."

"As much of a disciplinarian as you are, I'm surprised to hear you endorsing this," she said.

"Oh, it's not proper," he said. "It's not encouraged. But you and I both know that it happens. People hook up all the time on every ship I've ever been on, and I'm sure it happened on every other ship you were on before you were assigned to the _Enterprise_. Unless it creates a genuine discipline issue, or results in crew not being able to get along after a messy breakup, most commanding officers tend to look the other way. History has shown that ignoring basic needs, such as the need for companionship and intimacy, results in much more strife aboard a ship. That's why the _Enterprise_ was designed for families, so crew members won't be separated from their families."

"That makes sense," she said.

"But . . ."

"There was no but," she said. "It's hard to be career military and maintain relationships that mean something. I dated a crewmember on the last ship I was on, and when I got reassigned, he broke it off. Just like that," she snapped her fingers. "It's easier to be in an impersonal relationship just for sex, but that's not the kind of relationship I want to be in. I'd rather care about the person."

"I'd never have figured you being a romantic."

"I guess I am," she said. "I hadn't thought much about it."

"So, until then, you'd never done the friends with benefits thing."

"No," she replied. "No, that's . . . no."

"Not even in the Academy?"

"Definitely not at the Academy."

"So many new and exciting sexual experiences . . ."

"Oh, trust me, I started at the Academy having had way too many experiences that weren't at all pleasant," she said. "I was in no hurry to date anyone at that point."

"I'm sorry," Will said after a few seconds. "I could have chosen my words more carefully."

"It's just how things were," she said.

"Was your colony always that lawless?" he asked after a few seconds of silence. "I admit, I'd never even heard of Turkana IV before I read your background file just after being named First Officer. All it says is that you're from a failed colony where government rule collapsed, which sounds like an understatement."

She stared at the table. "It's a big understatement," she replied. "I was five when it happened, so I have some memories of what it was like, before."

"What was it like before?"

A slight smile crossed her face. "It was warm," she said, and her eyes reflected memories she still possessed of what things were like in Turkana City before the colony's government was overthrown by gangs. "The weather was hot and very humid, and I remember mountains we could see from our house, and there was an ocean nearby. Everything about it was warm. The weather was warm, the water was warm . . . To this day, I don't like being cold, and I'm not looking forward to the winter, here. People lived above ground The city hadn't been nuked, yet. We lived in a house and the windows always were open so the wind would blow through the house to cool things off. And I remember my grandmother. She had lived with us since my father died."

"When did that happen?"

"Well, I don't remember him," she replied. "He was killed in a cadre hit when I was about 2. My mother met someone else later, and he hung around just long enough to conceive my little sister. She was born when I was four or five. I had an older brother, too."

"What about your mother?"

"She was gone a lot," she replied. "My parents worked as guides and translators for off-world media representatives. My foster family on Earth had lived on Turkana when they were journalists covering the conflict, and they knew both my parents, so there's a bit of a connection. After I escaped they volunteered to host me when I arrived on Earth, and they told me about my parents, filled in some gaps."

"I thought all foreign nationals were executed by the government," Will said.

"Not by the government. The cadres collectively overthrew the government, and then they turned on each other. They were killing every foreign national they caught, so there was an evacuation of Federation citizens from their embassy right before the city fell.

"I didn't understand a lot of what was happening, except that it wasn't safe to play outside, anymore, and we stopped going to the ocean to swim. We used to do that all the time, and we couldn't go anymore. There were shootings, bombings; they blew up my brother's school. One day, my mother tried to get us out, and she argued with the guards at the embassy, but they wouldn't let us through. I remember watching one of the shuttles being shot down. And then she yelled for us to run."

Tasha seemed fixated on a gouged-out spot in the center of the table.

"There was smoke everywhere and we couldn't see anything," she continued. "I remember explosions around us, and then she shoved me into a drainage pipe, told us to be quiet. Alek held Ishara and crawled in after me, and we waited for our mother to crawl in there with us, but she never did. Alek tried to keep Ishara quiet, and he was convinced that someone would hear us and kill us.

"We were in there for hours, and finally we crawled out in the middle of the night, and our mother was dead, shot. The whole sky looked like it was on fire. We left her and ran home, and I suppose Alek hoped he'd find our grandmother, but we didn't see anyone we knew...we only saw cadres. And the church at the end of our street was fully involved, on fire.

"Alek spoke with someone, then ran back to us, and said we needed to leave, that the Coalition was going to nuke us and we needed to be below ground.

"And I got so upset, I wanted to know where our grandmother was, and he said, 'she's inside the church', and I argued with him, 'Why would she be in the church if the building is on fire?' I didn't understand at the time what had happened. The cadres destroyed anything and murdered anyone who might defend old traditions. When they invaded our neighborhood, they moved everyone inside the church, locked the door and then set it on fire.

"My memories from before the revolution are of playing with my cousins and being with my grandmother a lot, and you know how grandmothers spoil their grandchildren . . ." she cast a smile toward Will, who nodded knowingly. "And of playing with my little sister who was just a baby when this started, and antagonizing my older brother, and always having enough to eat. And then it was just gone. The cadres pissed it all away."

"Is that part of why you volunteer at Reconciliation?"

"Yeah, it is," she said. "But it's also that I really identify with these people who have nowhere else to go but up. I just don't go into the church."

"Why not?"

"Can't do it," she said. "When I saw my mother lying on the ground, all shot up and with the back of her head missing, I lost my faith instantly. And after I saw my grandmother and other relatives and neighbors being burned to death in the church, and then my brother dying later . . .the only thing I believed at that point was where had all that faith and devotion gotten us? Alek did, too . . . he told me that God sucker-punched us and sent us all to hell for being so stupid, which sounds harsh, but it made sense. My host family on Earth was very understanding, and they'd known my parents, so they knew how I was raised, and they knew from other Turkanan nationals who escaped after the revolution what had happened after the Federation evacuation. So they didn't push it on me. They are believers, and I am not. It's that simple."

"Do you keep in touch with your foster family?"

"Absolutely. I send them messages every once in a while, and they send an annual update note to all of us. They fostered so many Turkanan refugees. I think three or four of us went on to Starfleet Academy, even."

"You mentioned a brother," Will said.

"Alek," Tasha said. "He was three years older."

"Was?"

"He was murdered," Tasha said. "We were in the catacombs. Everyone was starving. People were eating their clothes, they'd eaten the pages out of their Bibles, roaches, rats, you name it. I remember eating algae that grew at the edges of the water supply pipes. People were killing each other for everything you can imagine.

"We were staying with two other survivors who had taken us in only so they could get 'children's rations', but they fought all the time, mostly over the lack of food and the fact that they had to share it with children that weren't even theirs.

"Alek really held us all together. He figured out how to find food and get along. There is no way I would have survived if it hadn't been for him. So he went further back into the tunnels to find something for us to eat, and a rape gang caught him. No one survives something like that. When he didn't come back, I went looking for him, and they'd left his body in one of the main corridors, and people were cutting him apart for food."

The coldest kind of horror came over Will at that point. Not just from what she was saying, but also from how nonchalant she was about it. He figured she'd probably long-ago come to terms about what had happened, and had moved on.

She had, for the most part.

"I ran back and told the people we were staying with what had happened," she said. "And one of them said, 'Well, one less mouth to feed', so flippant, no big deal that a little boy was killed. I grabbed Ishara, and took her to a more crowded part of the tunnels. I just wanted to get away from them for a while, but I never thought they'd leave. And after a few hours, we came back to the alcove, and they were gone. We never saw them again. As they say in this century, they just up-and-left."

"And you were, what, five years old?"

"Maybe," she replied. "I might have been six by then. I stopped keeping track. I didn't find out how old I actually was until after I reached Earth, and my foster family had saved all the records from Turkana. They uploaded them from the government as it was falling, so they had a record of everyone who was born and died there before the revolution. When I arrived on Earth, they looked me up, and I found out I was 15 years old, and that didn't seem possible. I felt more like I was 60."

"I can believe that," he said. "What about your sister?"

"I don't know," Tasha replied.

Will swallowed the initial, _why don't you know_ question and asked instead, "Would she still be on the planet?"

Tasha nodded. "She wouldn't leave. She joined a cadre. She tried to get me to join, but there was no way on that world I would do that. So I left, and she stayed."

"Ever been curious to check on her, see how she's doing now?"

"No," Tasha replied, staring at the table again. "We're done."

Will stared at her. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," she replied, and Will recognized immediately that she wasn't going to discuss it further. Not right now, at least.

They were silent for a few seconds.

"Do you have any sisters or brothers?" she asked. She really didn't want to think about Ishara, anymore.

"Not that I know of," he replied.

"Not that you _know_ of?" she asked.

"My mother died when I was two, and my father never remarried," he said. "My father dated quite a bit, but to my knowledge I don't think he's ever remarried. We've been estranged for years."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Well, it was my decision to leave," he remarked. "I'd just had enough. I've been on my own since I was 15. Ran away to San Francisco, joined Starfleet, and that was that."

"I didn't know you'd lost your mother," she said.

"She died in a ground car accident, just north of Anchorage. I was in the car with her but I don't remember much about it," he said. "I was injured, but I survived thanks to other motorists who stopped and pulled me out of the car. She wasn't able to get out."

Tasha raised her eyebrows.

"The car caught on fire," he explained. "My mother was pinned in the debris. Fire suppression crews beamed in within a couple of minutes, but by then it was too late."

Tasha shook her head. "That's terrible. I'm really sorry."

"Thanks," he said. "My father packed her belongings and placed them in storage, and as far as I know, those things still are in storage. I have two or three pictures of her, and her side of the family does keep in touch with me. Her older sister stayed in Alaska. But I haven't visited for more than two years."

"How long had your family been in Alaska?"

"Well, as we speak from the 21st century, some of my mother's side of the family is already there. They emigrated from Russia in the latter part of the 20th century and settled in the Aleutian Island chain. They were there for a couple hundred years, I think, and then my grandmother moved to Anchorage, and my mother was attending college there when she met my father.

"Dad was a control freak. We never did have a great relationship, but I know he tried and I suppose I can give him some credit for that. But it got to the point where I just couldn't deal with it, anymore. He always had to be better at everything than everyone else."

"Anyway, I decided I'd had enough, and I left home," he said. "I hopped a series of short-transport shuttles and headed south. I didn't really know where I was going. Teenagers take short hops all the time, but I knew if I took a long transit shuttle that people would ask too many questions and I'd get a one-way ticket back home. I wound up in San Francisco, and just roamed around the city for a couple of days.

"I didn't know what I wanted to do. Originally, I wanted to stay in Alaska because it's home. I'd thought about traveling, then heading to the Aleutians. But a big part of me wanted to go to space, so I enlisted in Starfleet. Didn't you say you were 15 when you got to Earth?"

"I was," she replied. "I didn't begin at the Academy until I was 17, though."

"We've got a lot more in common that I realized," Will remarked.

"Yeah, we do," she replied. "Who would have thought that?"

They had both begun new lives at age 15, both were estranged from their only immediate, living relatives, and both had lost their primary caregivers to a fiery fate.


	8. Chapter 8

**Future's Past, part 8**

* * *

**Aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_**, 2364**

"How could two people just disappear from this ship with no trace?"

During out-loud ruminations amongst what was left of his senior staff, Captain Jean-Luc Picard realized how much he'd grown to trust Will Riker's counsel. Riker had a reputation as being dogged in pursuing answers to anything, which is part of the reason Picard wanted him as his first officer.

If Riker weren't among those missing from the _Enterprise_, Picard would have him leading the investigation. Lt. Com. Data was fulfilling that responsibility aptly, but absence of both missing officers—Riker and the _Enterprise_'s Chief of Security, Natasha Yar, left more questions than answers.

"Sir, we have scanned records from Holodeck Four, and have determined that Lt. Louden Kendall had recently run 15 programs with his Class 4 students regarding Earth History. In addition, there were three other programs installed for recent use in that particular holodeck, but all were training scenarios recreating conditions aboard the _Enterprise_.

"Where was Lt. Kendall's simulation based?"

"On Earth, sir," Data replied. "Earth of the past, spanning the years from 1910 to the present, specifically in the North American Midwest, sir."

Picard nodded. "Is there any correlation?"

"Possibly, sir," Data replied. "We did detect genetic evidence from both Commander Riker and Lt. Yar on the bulkhead just across from where Lt. Yar's combadge was found."

"Evidence that both officers somehow contacted that bulkhead?"

"Yes, sir," Data said.

"Data," Picard stood up and walked toward the window, peering out at the stars as the ship warped through space. "Why would the bulkhead have anything to do with Lt. Kendall's Holodeck program?"

"Sir, that program was installed at the time of the incident in preparation for an appointment that Lt. Kendall had with his class. The bulkhead in question borders that particular Holodeck."

"But if the program wasn't running, how could it have been accessed?"

"I do not know, sir," Data said.

"Data, please have Lt. Kendall report to my ready room," Picard said. "I want to know more about this Holodeck program."

* * *

**From the 21st century observation notebook kept by Will Riker and Natasha Yar**

_"Always keep a bag of candy in your residence on October 31; otherwise, don't answer the door on Halloween or there will be repercussions"_

_"Spray paint does not come off with soap and water"_

_"Never shop for anything in North America on the day after Thanksgiving"_

* * *

_**Will Riker's log, December 2, 2007**_

_We're more alike than unlike. For all our differences, Tasha and I have many similarities. We're still wondering if this is some team-building exercise orchestrated by Starfleet. We don't get it. And why Kansas City? Why a different timeline? In our minds we're both still asking questions. We're not certain it's an exercise, anymore. We're finding things to laugh about, and we're laughing at each other's various missteps while learning to navigate this new culture. _

_The bizarre part is that it doesn't seem so foreign, anymore._

_We got our first taste of 21st century medical care two weeks ago. While she was splitting up another bar fight, Tasha got a shoulder laceration from one of the combatants waving a broken beer bottle. The wound was gaping open, so it needed to be treated at a hospital. She had wanted to take care of it herself, but her manager ordered her to the nearest hospital's emergency department. So she went—grudgingly—and waited two hours before she was even taken back to the treatment area. _

_Anyone who knows Tasha can imagine how much she enjoyed being in a crowded waiting room full of sick people, screaming children and nothing to read or do. She finally got back to the treatment area at around 0200, and they shot her arm up with a numbing agent—using a real needle. Then they dug out two pieces of glass and sewed up the wound—using real stitches. She evidently got a kick out of this, because she crashed into the apartment at 0400 hours, and woke me up to tell me all about it._

"_I had a work-related date with a doctor," she said, pulling up her bloodied, left shirtsleeve so I could see what she was talking about. "Check this out."_

_She has 11 stitches on the side of her upper, left arm. It looked like Dr. Frankenstein had been working on her. Tasha thought being sewn up as a badge of honor._

"_That's your idea of a good time?" I had asked her._

"_It was good for me," she said, and then added, "Until they gave me a tetanus shot in my other arm."_

_And then we got the bill, and I'm thankful that our neighbors didn't call the police when Tasha saw what they were charging for 11 stitches, some lidocaine and a tetanus shot. In a massively condensed, much quieter and slightly less profane version of how she put it, the bill came out to "one thousand, nine hundred and eighteen fucking dollars". _

_I think the hospital should deduct at least part of that bill for the respiratory virus that Tasha contracted, probably from those fun-filled hours in a cramped waiting room filled with viral people before she got sewn up. She started getting sick two days later, and then I caught it, too. What a deal. We were both miserable for two weeks, but Tasha had it especially bad, coughing so much she couldn't sleep._

_After Tasha showed up for one of her shifts at The Rec with a fever, someone finally ordered her to a free clinic up on 31st Street, where she was diagnosed with bronchitis. She got some free samples of something called Levaquin, which gave her an awful headache but got rid of the cough. She was told that if she'd waited longer to come in, she might have needed a hospital admission for pneumonia._

_We've both heard enough advertising by now, for anything from must-have trinkets to health care that no one can afford, even with insurance (which no one can afford, either). Both Tasha and I work in places where the television is on virtually nonstop, and in every commercial break there are ads for medications. People are supposed to go to their doctors and demand these medications for everything from supposed sleep problems to impotence. _

_By the time Tasha finally went to the doctor, she didn't care what she was given. She just wanted to feel better._

_News programs are hawking vaccinations for influenza, but we can't afford them. We had hoped that inoculations we both received prior to our Starfleet Academy days would have covered all strains of influenza. But they didn't, otherwise, neither of us would have gotten sick, this past week. _

_So to that end, I think the "catch this cold" sales pitch could go something like this:_

"_Influenza season is approaching, and your immune system needs that boost to combat whatever strain is on its way. And now, you can receive an IMMUNE BOOSTER with a FREE cold virus straight from your local hospital! And it can be yours, too, ABSOLUTELY FREE, not including the hefty bill you'll receive for whatever medical care you may have needed in the first place. And as an added bonus, you can give that virus to the rest of your family, at NO EXTRA CHARGE! Over-the-counter cold symptom 'remedies', vitamins and treatment for opportunistic infections not included."_

_I think this place is making me more cynical._

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, December 12, 2007**

"You need gloves," Will remarked as they stepped back into the apartment from a snowy evening. "You're going to wind up with frostbite to add to your injury collection."

They were fresh from an evening of "bar crawling", listening to Will's beloved jazz music near Kansas City's downtown area, where jazz joints were everywhere. The city was brimming with those acts, and some of the best often played at the restaurant where he worked, so he got to hear partial sets as he was serving patrons.

Others played in downtown KC, and he caught every band that he could. Though he'd often wished for his trombone, he quickly realized that he was way, way out of his league with these musicians, whose fast style and energy would have left him in the dust within seconds. He was more interested in picking up the rhythm and energy. There was so much music he'd never heard before, as many recordings had been lost to history.

"I'll pick some gloves up tomorrow on my way to work," Tasha replied, knowing she could grab a cheap pair from the thrift store. "Do you think it'll get colder than it was today?"

"Definitely," he replied. "It's only December, and it really isn't that cold, yet. This is early fall weather where I'm from, and then it gets genuinely cold."

"I'm not used to this," she said.

Will grinned. "You'd better start collecting more clothes, now. And socks. I can't believe you've made it this long without wearing any socks."

"I don't like these socks," she said. "They're too thick and my feet get too hot."

"Surely you wore socks with your uniform boots on the _Enterprise_," he said. "That's a uniform code violation. And now that I know, if we ever get back to where we belong, I'll be doing regular inspections of your feet to make sure you're in compliance."

"With my boots, yes, but not with these shoes," she replied.

"Sandals aren't going to cut it in the snow. I'm just glad you have a pair of running shoes, but you've got to wear some socks or your feet are going to freeze."

Will never worried about her ability to deal with bar fights, but he was genuinely concerned about how she'd handle the upcoming winter. He knew damn well that the weather would get much colder and that she wasn't acclimatized to it . . . not that she would have admitted it.

* * *

**December 15, 2007, 0330 hours**

For the second night in a row, Will had been jarred awake by Tasha talking in her sleep in a language he didn't recognize, though it sounded a lot like Russian. She roused with a start, staggered to the bathroom. He heard the water running, and then she reemerged after having splashed water across her face.

"You all right, Tash?" he asked through the darkened bedroom.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she replied hoarsely, abruptly rolling away from him, onto her right side. Even in the dim light he could see she had buried her face in her pillow.

Will sat up on the edge of his bed, pondering how he should handle this. He was genuinely worried about her, because she never slept with her back to anyone, even him. He thought about walking across the room, sitting on the edge of her bed, asking her again. _You can talk to me. What the hell happened? _

But he hadn't. He opened his mouth to speak several times into the darkness, but ultimately remained silent and finally lay back down without intervening. He didn't know what had upset her so much, but he knew she would be embarrassed if he made an issue out of it, and he didn't want to rub that in.

Another part of him, the part that still got horrified at the atrocities humanity wrought upon its own, didn't want to know. _It had to be something that happened on Turkana IV, or she wouldn't have been speaking her native language,_ he thought. _She'd tell me if she wanted me to know._

As he fell back asleep, he resolved to ask her about it tomorrow morning. But by the time he rolled out of bed at 0700, she was already awake, listening to the morning news on the radio, reading the paper and offering her usual, cheery "good morning", as if a bad night had never happened.

She had the grocery ads spread out and was excited about finding frozen blueberries on sale, buy one get one free. Tasha Yar could be perky when it was convenient, like this morning, when she didn't want to talk about something.

* * *

**43rd Place Bar and Grill, December 31, 2007**

Will had New Year's Eve off, so he came to the bash at the bar where Tasha was working. The place was more packed than usual, so she wasn't going anywhere until at least 0300. Although Gregorian "new year's" parties still were held in the 24th century, they were nowhere near as raucous as these were shaping up to be.

The 43rd had a live band belting out classic rock standards for the usual crowd that patronized the establishment. The bar was packed, so Will didn't see much of Tasha unless she was rushing from one place to the next. With midnight only a few seconds away, Tasha meandered down the stairs with an empty tray dangling from her fingers.

She hadn't been paying attention to the television, which was tuned to one of the cable news stations for a rebroadcast of the celebration in New York City one hour earlier. There was nothing comparable in the central time zone, so networks simply rebroadcast the countdown from the eastern zone.

Will met her at the base of the stairs just as the crowd erupted in celebration as midnight lapsed.

"Hey!" Will reached out to envelop her, empty tray and all, into a celebratory embrace. "Happy New Year!"

"Happy New Year," she replied, genuinely hugging him back. Will couldn't resist swaying with her to "Auld Lang Syne" being played by the band. He knew damn well that she didn't dance, but she didn't pull away, so he didn't care. The boisterous crowd nearly drowned out the band, but that was OK, too.

Will stayed at the bar for another hour, initially intending to see if he could pick up a date that night. But he struck up a conversation with other patrons, instead, chatting about politics, about an upcoming college football championship game. Regulars at the bar convinced Will that this game was worth watching. _The University of Kansas has a chance to win it,_ they said, _if the team doesn't choke in the second half._ Will just nodded and smiled, inwardly deciding that he needed to learn more about American football before he watched any game with that rabid crowd.

"Why are you still hanging out here?" Tasha said, almost teasing, at about 0100 hours. "I thought you'd have made off with some hot woman by now."

"I'm talking football," Will said. "I'm doing some guy bonding."

"Are you feeling all right?" she said, in jest. She knew Will didn't watch football, and probably didn't know a field goal from the frappuccino he choked down while they were jumping between jazz clubs a couple of weeks ago.

She had laughed at him for ordering it because he wasn't the frappuchino type. But she also knew he had ordered it because several women sitting at a table nearby had ordered them, and he thought he'd be trendy. Truth was, he thought it was revolting. Tasha wound up finishing it for him.

"Now you're feeling sorry for me," he replied.

"I'm starting to, yes," she nodded. "It's New Year's Eve and you don't have a date. Something's wrong."

"Do _you_ have a date?"

"No," she replied. "I'm working!"

"See? Nothing's wrong!"

Smiling, she wadded a napkin and playfully threw it at him.

* * *

**43rd Place, January 3, 2008**

Though she wasn't scheduled to work that evening, Tasha wound up at the bar anyway, watching this football game she'd heard so much about. Her manager, Gary Tobin, almost fell over when she actually sat down and ordered a drink.

"You're watching the game here?" Gary asked, somewhat incredulous. "I'd figured you'd had enough of this place."

"We don't have a TV," she replied.

Will was scheduled to work until 2000, but JC Nichols Jazz was "absolutely dead," as Will's manager put it. People were elsewhere, watching the game. He'd known that Tasha would be hanging out at her workplace, so he went there after Nichols closed early, at 1945.

Besides, Will had educated himself. He'd purchased _The Complete Idiot's Guide to Football_ from the used bookstore and reviewed it over the past day. He'd felt better when he discovered that the same book (plus several similar ones) were checked out of the public library.

The 43rd was so packed that Will had to talk his way inside. He only got in because the bouncers knew who he was. Even the back deck was full of people, all standing up in the sub-freezing weather and staying warm with body heat and booze.

Although Tasha had consumed an alcoholic drink, she couldn't resist helping out, much to Gary's chagrin. By law, she couldn't serve liquor if she'd been drinking, so she couldn't help her overwhelmed colleagues with table service. But she could do other things that fell by the wayside on an evening like this. It wasn't long before she was busted by her boss.

"No, you don't!" Gary said, grabbing her arm as she carried a bag of trash from the women's room outside to toss in the dumpster. He ordered her to leave the bag on the back step, and then pushed her by her shoulders toward the bar stool that Will had nabbed earlier. "Sit down, and relax!"

Will got up off the stool so she could sit down, and as Gary handed her another Rum and Coke, he told Will, "Would you do both of us a huge favor? Make sure she sits her ass down unless they win, so she'll enjoy herself for a change? She's been restocking our toilet paper and taking out the trash."

"No problem!" Will replied, then turned to shout in Tasha's ear. "That sounds like an order, and I'll double it!"

"Yes, sir," she said, lifting her glass to take a drink. She was lucky to have a seat, but at that point, few people were using them because half the crowd was on their feet, craning their necks to watch the game blaring from every TV in the bar, but soon it became evident that Kansas had won the game.

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, January 3, 2007, 2315 hours**

Will and Tasha opted to walk home 20 minutes later, both of them buzzed by drinks, laughing at everything, their ears ringing from the prolonged boisterousness that accompanied a major victory. Things were loud at the 43rd, but genuinely active up the street in Westport's central district, where thousands more fans had gathered to celebrate.

They wanted nothing to do with it. The last thing Tasha needed right now was to feel compelled to split up another fight. So, they walked back to the apartment, grateful for the relative silence compared to the deafening decibel-level within the entire Westport neighborhood.

Snow floated straight down in still air, which was rare in Kansas City, where the wind always was blowing. Only an inch of snow had accumulated, but they still walked carefully to avoid slipping.

The weather wasn't horribly cold to Will, but Tasha began shivering only two blocks into their walk. Will chanced slipping one arm around her, rubbing her opposite shoulder to help warm her up as they walked toward Main Street. They knew they'd have awhile to wait on the corner before they could cross. It was a long light, and traffic was heavy.

Later, they would laugh about "who started it," and agreed it had been mutual, a chance glance sideways toward each other at the same time. They drifted together and shared a lingering kiss, turning into each other's embrace and then backing off a little to look at each other, a bit surprised by what had just happened.

"What was that?" Will asked, whispering.

She responded at the same time he did, with another kiss. This one was deeper, more languid, taking its own, sweet time as she turned toward him, to really face him. Then she pulled away again as his hands rose to cradle her face.

"This doesn't—" Tasha started.

"—feel right," Will finished.

They smiled at the same time, their foreheads touching as snow feathered across their hair and their collective breath intermingled in a warm fog. Her hands rested against his chest and his arms slipped around her shoulders.

"I'm interested, believe me," Tasha said.

"Oh, I'm interested, too, but. . ."

"Something doesn't feel right," they responded in unison, laughing a bit.

"Feels good, though," Will said. "Wow."

"Light's green," she said.

"What do you mean by that?"

She pulled him toward the street. "I mean. . .that we need to cross the street or we'll be stuck here for another two minutes."

"Oh! I was—."

"I know you were," she replied, stepping out into the street. "Come on!"

"We need to sleep this off," Will said as they hopped back onto the sidewalk after crossing Main Street.

"What do you mean by that?" she said, glancing at him.

"We've both been drinking," he said. "You know what I'm talking about."

"Yeah, I know."

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, 2330 hours**

Will and Tasha's version of "pillow talk" had been going on for months.

They often chatted about everything and nothing from their respective beds, located on either side of the single bedroom with a reading lamp between them. Piles of books, newspapers, and various odds and ends of Tasha's were scattered against the wall just beneath the lamp.

Will hadn't been very successful at curing her of tossing her belongings wherever it seemed convenient for her. He knew something was up when they arrived back at the apartment and Tasha actually hung up her coat instead of tossing it anywhere it happened to fall.

This time was different, all right. They were both slumped back against the couch, her head resting against his shoulder, one of his arms relaxed around hers.

They were just talking, but things had changed, and they knew it. She'd had enough to drink that she wouldn't have minded at all if his hands slipped beneath her shirt at that point. But she was cognizant enough to understand that a wild romp with Will Riker would change everything, and probably not for the better.

He never made that move.

"—long as we're sober if we go for it," she was saying. "Because if we went for it tonight, while we're both wasted, we'd probably have regrets tomorrow. And then, there's that whole, fraternization issue. . ."

Will had no problem with that, because he was in the midst of an epiphany. He couldn't explain the feeling he'd had on the street corner, when they both looked into each other's eyes, and understood instantly that a sexual relationship wasn't right. He'd never experienced that, before.

He was interested, she was interested, but . . . something wasn't right about it.

He tried to explain it away by telling himself that she wasn't his type. She wasn't the flirty, girly girl who hung on his every move, but he grown to appreciate that. Tasha was different, a uniquely beautiful woman who happened to be the _Enterprise_'s lethal weapon. Here in Kansas City, she took on the role of the tomboyish, little sister who knew how to push his buttons, who had a quick and often sick sense of humor that belied a deep-seated insecurity beneath the hardened exterior. He suspected that it wasn't too much of a stretch for her.

He'd never had trouble getting laid, but he hadn't viewed Tasha Yar with that potential, before their New Year's kiss nor even afterward. Late-night chats weren't unusual for them, but snuggling was definitely a new thing.

Admittedly, it felt great that he could just wrap his arms around her, and not really need a reason. She never put up the front that she wanted or needed to be held. But now she seemed content in his embrace, instead of pushing him away or acting too tough for a little tenderness.

The more he got to know her, the more he understood why she was the way she was. Her direct manner and lack of hesitation made her an outstanding tactical and combat officer, but sometimes came across as impatience. She didn't appreciate people who were indecisive, and often popped off with tactless remarks to that effect. If she didn't like what someone was doing, she minced no words when she let them know it.

She had no clue how to dress to impress, and didn't want one, either. She based her fashion taste instead on what was practical and comfortable, living in jeans and sweatshirts, and didn't really care what anyone else thought of her. He'd only seen her wearing a skirt once, aboard the _Enterprise_ just after the Farpoint Station mission, and he learned later that she'd only worn it because she'd lost a bet.

More than anything, she'd taught him not to judge anyone so quickly. That used to be his modus operandi, sealing his mind around his first impression, then finding or magnifying anything that would "prove" his initial feeling. Deanna had called him on that frequently, especially during personnel reviews. Tasha had begun teasing him good-naturedly about "inviting gorgeous bimbos into the apartment, and then finding out after a round of great sex that your date has the mental acuity of the yippy dog she carries in her purse when she's not banging her bar dates."

Tasha had decided within a few months of their Kansas City adventures that Will's problem wasn't that he needed to get laid. He did enough of that. She had heard about some of his _Enterprise_ dalliances and knew about many of his Kansas City conquests. She finally stopped keeping track, although he did owe her, big time, for all the nights she had to find someplace else to sleep.

After their blowup fight last summer, they'd devised a signal system. They had found a hanging block of cedar in one of the apartment's closets, long ago used to prevent moths from eating clothes that once hung there. If the block of wood was hanging on the front doorknob when either of them came back, the other one was entertaining in the apartment.

The "got wood" reference wasn't lost on either of them, and for a change it actually was Will who cracked the first joke about their signal system. She'd held one hand up at that, and said, "That's just too much information."

Normally, she didn't get too upset, for which Will was grateful. She figured it was his business. And it wasn't as if she hadn't done the same thing a couple of times, herself — but that had been in a different place and time, when she had her own cabin and didn't have a roommate.

One late night several weeks earlier, she'd confronted him about his latest 'girlfriend', whom she recognized as one of Westport's working girls. That made her very uncomfortable for a myriad of reasons, and she confronted him about it.

"If you ever believe that getting laid is all you want from a relationship, you should try getting laid for a living," she told him after walking into the apartment a few minutes after the woman left. "That'll change your mind real fast."

Until then, he hadn't thought about Tasha's past—hadn't thought much about Tasha at all during his various dalliances. But her statement, made from brutal experience as someone who had been forced into child prostitution, had sobered Will considerably on ever again hiring anyone for sex.

They hadn't spoken about it since then, but as they sat together on the couch, contemplating what had just happened on the corner of 39th and Main and what they were going to do about it, he had another revelation. The nightmares Tasha had denied for weeks had begun the night after Will had paid a woman for an hour of her time.

_No wonder she didn't want to say anything,_ Will said, suddenly ashamed. He found himself wondering whether Tasha had ever enjoyed sex, then shut that thought off fast, turning his head toward hers and pressing his mouth against the upper side of her head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

She didn't look up, but nonetheless responded. "Sorry for what?"

"Just . . . everything."

* * *

As many issues as they'd had in the months since they'd been stranded out of their own time or place, they decided that they needed to have a night like this one, where initial overtures on a street corner _didn't _lead to a wild round of sex.

That would have been too easy, too tempting, the easy way out.

Instead, it opened introspection for both of them. Neither of them were in a hurry to move from where they were, so they stayed there on the couch. For all the fighting ability and brute force Tasha displayed as security chief, she felt light as a feather to Will, her head leaning warmly against his shoulder.

"If our relationship traverses to the next level, it might cheapen it," he remarked. "You're the first female friend I've ever had . . . that I _haven't_ slept with."

"I believe that," she remarked.

"And I think your sense of humor actually is . . . even sicker than mine," he added.

"Are we finally going there with the towel?"

"The towel?"

"The infamous towel that was left hanging up in the bathroom, that I used without knowing th—," she began.

"All right, let me just say that I didn't know she had done that," he said. "I should have known about the towel, and I should have known because she actually folded it up over the bar in the bathroom. You always leave it on the bathroom floor."

"It even grossed _me_ out, Will," she said, but he could see through the darkness that she was grinning a bit. "So did you wind up seeing her, again?"

"Nah," he said. "She was a smoker. I really don't care for that."

"Oh, I think I can top that one."

"How could you top that one?"

"Remember Roy?"

"Which one was Roy?"

"Well, I don't possess the number of notches that you evidently have, but I did go out for drinks with a man I met outside the Karate dojo," she replied. "He gave me a ride home on his motorcycle."

"Hey, that's a good start," he said. "So did you then give him a ride?"

"No," she said, laughing a bit.

"No?" he replied, in mock surprise. "What was the problem?"

"He had a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth," she said. "Have you ever kissed someone who chews tobacco?"

"He had what?"

"Chewing tobacco," she replied. "If they don't smoke it, they stuff it between their gums and teeth, just like chipmunks."

Will's expression betrayed genuine disgust. "You're serious."

"Yes, I'm serious, and it was awful," she replied. "And coming from me, that's really bad."

"What do you mean?"

She took a deep breath. "You know what I'm talking about," she said.

Will had tried not to think much about what she'd told him once, when she was near tears in a park not far away from where they now lived, when she admitted she had lived through part of her childhood by essentially working in a Turkanan brothel. "I figured you did what you had to do," he said.

"That would be correct."

"Have you ever discussed what you went through with anyone? With a counselor?"

"They had me talk about when I first arrived," she said. "And then I moved on to Starfleet, and figured I was finished talking about it, so I stopped."

"You're talking about it, now," he ventured.

"I don't know why," she said softly. "You didn't need to be hearing this."

"Does it help you to talk about it?"

"Not if it burdens the listener."

"Nothing's a burden to me if it helps the person who needs to unload."

"I'm not the type to unload on anyone."

"You can unload on me."

"Thank you," she replied, almost whispering, though she'd known for months that she could tell him anything. "There are some things that I just don't like to discuss."

"I can tell when you've been thinking about Turkana," he said.

She lifted her head off his shoulder and looked up at him. "It's that obvious?"

"Your accent comes back when you've been brooding about things."

"I try not to brood about anything," she replied, resting her head back against his shoulder. "I need to stay in the moment."

"You're having nightmares," he said.

"I thought you'd slept through that."

"You were talking in your sleep in Russian."

"Ukrainian," she replied. "My Russian isn't very good."

"It's probably better than mine," he said. "I figured you'd be fluent in Russian."

She shook her head. "I'd never heard Russian spoken until I came to Earth. There are some words that are the same, but the language is different. I can read it better than I can speak it. Hey, guess who on the _Enterprise_ speaks fluent Russian."

"Other than you, I have no idea."

"I'm barely proficient," she replied. "I can get by. Lieutenant Worf is fluent in Russian."

"Worf?"

"That was my reaction!" she replied. "His foster parents are Russian."

"I hadn't heard you speaking it until then," he said.

"I wouldn't have been speaking in Russian."

"Well, speaking whatever it was you were speaking the other night."

"Ukrainian. Or Turkanan," she said. "It's a dialect of Ukrainian, more slang."

"Yeah, that," he replied. "I guess."

"Just one of those things," she said.

"What happened?"

She shook her head, and a few seconds later, he gave her a quick squeeze.

"Lots of things happened. I just don't know where to start."

"What woke you up that night?"

"The same thing that's been waking me up for years."

"What happened?"

"Another working girl begged me to kill her," Tasha replied. He could tell she was choosing her words wisely, almost afraid of revealing too much. "She was a little older than I was, and the bosses forced an abortion on her, but something went wrong. They carried her in a back room, left her to die. I think she had an infection. I heard her screaming and I went back there, and her face was gray and she was feverish, her abdomen was as hard as a rock. She begged me to just kill her."

Will had no idea what to say as several seconds of uncomfortable silence had passed. He knew by then that she'd remained quiet for a reason. Euthanasia wasn't something that was acceptable in the Federation, but neither was prostitution, nor drug use, nor anything else that Tasha most likely had lived through in a society that had disintegrated from civilized norms. _She did what she had to do, and it haunts her, even today,_ he thought.

"So, you took care of her?"

"She was suffering," Tasha added, whispering. "There was nothing . . . there was no medical care. If people got sick, they died. It was that simple."

"How old were you?"

Tasha shrugged, still looking down. "I don't know. Maybe 12, if that." She clenched and unclenched her hands, which had rested in her lap. "I'd never killed anyone, before. . ."

"You didn't kill her," Will said. "Those bosses killed her. You helped her by ending her suffering."

She nodded, but was quiet after that, long enough that Will looked down at her to make sure she was all right. She was no longer looking at her hands, but instead staring straight ahead, toward the opposite wall, her eyes appearing ancient with awful memories of ending another human life, even in a mercy death.

"Can we talk about something else?" she said.

"How about we both sleep this off?" he replied.

She nodded against his shoulder, but they still didn't budge.

"You really want to get up?" he asked, silently hoping she'd want to stay right where she was. The couch barely was wide enough for both of them.

"Not really," she replied, her voice sleepy.

They were warm and comfortable where they were, and that's where they slept, reclined on the couch, both of them fully dressed. They hadn't even taken off their shoes.

They knew not to mess with what already worked, and Will especially had a revelation that night, that true friendship existed in the phase that he and Tasha were in right now. They could finish each other's sentences, knew how each other ticked, could look into each other's souls and never be too disturbed by what they discovered about each other.

_We're not going to do this tonight,_ Will decided, knowing intuitively that Tasha was thinking the same. Some flings weren't worth the complications. _Maybe never, and that's OK. What we've already got is worth much more to both of us._


	9. Chapter 9

**Future's Past, part 9**

* * *

**Aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_**, 2364**

"Lt. Kendall, thank you for arriving so quickly," Jean-Luc Picard said. "I understand you were in the midst of teaching our young pupils."

"Yes, sir."

"History and sociology, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me about the Holodeck program you've developed."

"Yes, sir," Kendall replied. "It's a series of programs I've developed over the past few years based on experiences my own family had on Earth. It ranges through a 100-year period in the Kansas City area, and introduces intermediate students to complex capitalism and social structure in both industrial and modern societies. The simulations in Kansas City were derived from my personal familiarity to the area and its history. I've found that once students feel that connection, they tend to remember more about it."

Picard nodded. It made absolute sense.

"Lt. Kendall, the reason we've called you here today is regarding an incident that hasn't yet been released to the rest of the ship, so I must ask for your discretion," Picard said.

"Two crew members from this ship are missing, possibly in a temporal displacement between the hours of 0700 to 0830. We believe the incident occurred just adjacent to the Holodeck where your programs were installed, and we're looking at every option."

"Are they all right, sir?"

"We don't know," Picard replied. "But we have reason to be believe that both officers may be caught in a temporal displacement, though that's yet to be confirmed. My senior staff is investigating."

"How would a temporal displacement have anything to do with a Holodeck program that wasn't even operating, sir?"

"Again, we don't know, yet. We're looking at all our options."

* * *

**Independence, Missouri, January 12, 2008**

"Let's try them!" Natasha Yar seemed more enthusiastic than usual about her latest, 21st century, culinary discovery. That had been their latest goal: Looking for unique dishes that couldn't be found in the 24th century.

This dish definitely fit that criteria, and Will Riker was disgusted, certain that she'd found something straight out of the Dark Ages.

"_You_ try them," he replied.

Earlier in the day, they had taken the bus to the nearby city of Independence, which qualified as a suburb of Kansas City (though Independence residents tended to view it the other way around), to visit the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library, which Will had wanted to see since first hearing about it from patrons at his workplace. The facility, built for one of the past presidents of the United States, honored the life, career and timeframe of the Missouri-native, and was a popular attraction for history buffs.

Neither Will nor Tasha had been particularly interested in history before they were stranded 350 years in their own pasts. But increasingly, they wanted to understand more about the time they now lived in. This exhibit was like walking into a mid-20th century time capsule.

They stopped at a nearby café to get something to eat. It wasn't exactly their kind of place: Country music twanged in the background and horseshoes hung over every door. Will literally could feel his arteries hardening just from inhaling the airborne grease droplets wafting from the kitchen and into the dining area.

But they'd already decided that taste tests like these were part of their grand adventure. So they grabbed a table and perused the menu.

"What are calf fries?" Tasha had asked the waitress.

"Mountain oysters," the waitress had replied, prepared for the usual, gross-out reaction typical of an out-of-towner. "Deep fried bull testicles."

Tasha was unfazed. "Oh, okay. . .I'll have those."

"The appetizer or the combo?"

"The combo, please."

Will stared at Tasha in complete disbelief. _You're eating what?_ he mouthed toward her.

She only smiled back in his direction. Finally, she'd broken his poker face.

"What can I get for you, sir?" the waitress asked him, not really hiding her amusement, either. She'd seen Will's reaction many times before, usually from "city folks" who ambled into town to see the Library. The café's other, unique offerings of kidneys, deep-fried frog legs and sage-stuffed rattlesnake also brought some revulsion, though not as much as the testicles did.

"I'll have the catfish plate," Will finally replied, and noticed for the first time a framed poster on the opposite wall, picturing a distressed-looking cartoon bull, crossing its front hooves in front of its genital area, with the adjacent quote: _'Lost mine at Jimmy's!'_

"Would you like fries or potato salad with that?" the waitress asked.

"Uh, what kind of fries?" he asked, a bit worried. The "fries" she'd referred to earlier didn't sound appetizing, at all. He tried not to think about the cartoon bull.

"Potatoes," she replied. "French fries."

"And not the. . .calf kind. . ."

"No, not the calf fries," she replied, smiling and imagining (correctly) that the woman at the table was ordering calf fries as a good-natured dig on the man she was with.

Will, who usually was quick to raid samples of whatever Tasha ordered, didn't even reach in that direction. There were four calf fries, served in a paper-lined, plastic basket with French fries and a pickle. They looked as innocuous as fish and chips. He tried not to look at her while she ate.

"How's your fish?" she asked.

"Very good," he replied.

"Want a bite of mine—?"

"No!"

* * *

**January 19, 2008, Kansas City, Missouri**

Although sporting events in the 21st century seemed unsophisticated, Will and Tasha were competitive enough to have gotten into any sporting event. That was true on the _Enterprise_, and now it was true on Earth, even if it was 350 years in the past.

They even found themselves taking sides.

Regardless of the sport being played, any game pitting the University of Missouri against the University of Kansas always guaranteed a crowd at area watering holes. Kansas City straddled the border between the states of Missouri and Kansas, so loyalties for each respective university also were divided.

On this winter evening, the University of Missouri was hosting the annual grudge match at their school's base in Columbia, which was located three hours away from Kansas City, deep in "Tiger Territory", as it was called. Around 300 fans of both schools who didn't want to drive that far gathered at the 43rd to watch the basketball match, and they proudly wore their school's colors: Crimson and blue, or black and gold.

Tasha already had made her preference known, mostly because her boss Gary was a KU fan. She had splurged for the occasion, purchasing a t-shirt with a University of Kansas Jayhawk emblazoned across the front.

Will arrived at the bar in the middle of the game, meandering into his usual watching spot with his usual crowd of bar buddies who still only knew each other only by their first names. Tasha was in the thick of things, as usual, hauling drinks all over the place.

She'd gotten to where she rarely spilled anything, anymore, unless someone ran into her.

But that was what finally happened, of course, about 20 minutes before Will showed up. She was heading toward the stairs with six empty glasses and two pitchers of beer just as a man came hurrying around the corner and slammed right into her.

To Tasha's credit, nothing on her tray hit the floor. She was able to keep everything on the tray, except the contents of both pitchers, which splashed into her face, then tipped over against her white t-shirt. A bit embarrassed, Gary still good-naturedly teased her, informing her that the "world will be seeing your business unless you change into a dry shirt."

The only spare shirt he had in his office was a black, Mizzou t-shirt that had been left behind in the bar one evening. It was at least two sizes too large for her, but it would have to do. She rinsed out her own shirt and had the bar's cook put it on top of the pizza oven to dry it out, hopefully before she got too much crap for wearing a shirt for "that other team".

She didn't need to wait long for her first gig from a patron about the giant tiger displayed across the front of her shirt.

"Did you lose a bet?" Will laughed when he saw her.

"No, this was an accident—," she started to say, and then he noticed that her hair was wet and that the front of her jeans were wet, too. "Two pitchers versus a patron in a hurry, and I lost. My shirt's drying out on top of the oven. This one was in the lost and found box. If my shirt hadn't been white, I'd have just kept wearing it wet, but Gary told me he doesn't run that kind of place."

_Would have been nice to see, though,_ Will thought, then he stopped that thought process. For the past two weeks, since their not-so-accidental street corner make-out session, he'd had to force himself not to fantasize about the "what if" scenarios that could have happened if he and Tasha hadn't put a stop to it.

Of course, nothing much had happened that night. They had talked for awhile, then dozed off while sitting straight up against the back of the couch, leaning sideways against each other. They woke up the next morning spooned up on the couch, still wearing all their clothes. They hadn't even taken off their shoes.

Will didn't remember the last time he had awakened next to a woman without having used her the night before.

_What had happened that night was absolutely right,_ he thought. Nothing had happened. The path not taken was the best path for both of them.

They had sat back up the morning after nothing had happened, finally kicked off their shoes and propped their bare feet up on the small table they'd pilfered from a trash pile two months earlier. Tasha had teased him about having hairy toes. _Why do you even bother wearing socks, Will? _He still had to laugh a little about that one.

They'd taken separate showers as usual and then walked several blocks toward a favorite coffee shop on Broadway for breakfast. They were just buddies, chatting and laughing about everything, and nothing.

* * *

Grumbling brought Will out of his reverie. The game was heating up, and with it, the generations-long school loyalties that had far deeper roots. F-bombs were dropped by bar patrons over what they were hearing from Mizzou fans at the game.

Mizzou's campus police had tamped out much of the shoving and brawling that used to accompany a home game against Kansas. But hyped-up MU fans still got their digs in wherever they could, often chanting slogans used since before the U.S. Civil War, when Missouri and Kansas were bitterly divided: Missouri had been a slave state, and Kansas was a free state. Even multiple generations later, Mizzou students invoked the name of one of their state's historical figures to further insult their visitors:

"_Quantrill was right! Quantrill was right! Quantrill was right!"_

The chant emanated from televised game coverage, and even the game commentators quickly groaned before the game abruptly cut to a commercial.

"Huh?" Tasha didn't understand that one.

Gary leaned closer to explain over the noise. "Quantrill was with the Missouri militia back before the Civil War, and he led a group of men over to Kansas on a raid, to get the Free Staters back for another raid they'd done earlier."

Tasha always got a kick out of Gary's pronunciation of the state's name. She'd most often heard it pronounced 'Missouree', but Gary and some other area residents always said, 'Missourah'. He'd told her that he was from someplace in Missouri called Joplin, and as a native Missourian, he could call it whatever he wanted to.

"Quantrill and his group killed about 200 men and boys, burned down the entire town of Lawrence, and then they left," Gary said. "In Missouri, William Quantrill is considered a hero, and in Kansas he's considered a butcher. But this stuff was going on everywhere in those days."

"So they're chanting that they think this guy was right to burn down a community and murder its citizens?" Tasha asked. "This happened, what, 500 hundred years ago?"

"150 years ago," Gary replied, winking at her, as an irrepressible grin spread across his face.

_Oops. . ._Tasha thought, glad Will hadn't overheard that slip-up. Will was too busy talking politics and basketball at the other end of the bar.

"Yeah, Kansas might have moved on after the Civil War, but some people from Missouri never did," Gary said, having moved on, as he always did. "The majority of us are good people, we aren't racist and we're grown ups, but racism's here, too. I'm not a racist, but people find out my family's from Joplin and they automatically think I'm in the KKK. It's stupid. The White Power crap's made us all look bad.

"And then these immature students up there in the stands, they get so wrapped up in school pride, they don't even know what they're shouting about. But some of the KU fans bring it on. I guarantee you that right now, there's a whole crowd of 'em who drove over from Lawrence all the way out to Columbia just looking for a reason to kick someone's ass, and they sort of invite it. Some of 'em don't even go to the game. They're in town on game day just to stir some shit. That's why I insisted you work tonight. We need you here in case people start pounding on each other."

Tasha thought about retreating to the bathroom to turn her shirt inside out, and then providence intervened, and a welcome voice from the kitchen got her attention.

"You're off the hook, Tasha!"

She glanced up in time to see her KU shirt, now dry, sailing through the air toward her, and she caught it. Al waved at her.

"You're such a good sport!" Al said. "I'd have displayed my beer gut to the world before wearing a Mizzou shirt, tonight!"

* * *

**Early February, 2008**

Will became intrigued with basketball. It was more compact, more fast-paced, a good workout. Where Tasha preferred beating the hell out of people for the sport of it at her dojo, Will enjoyed a good pick-up game.

He purchased a used basketball and began shooting hoops at the community center down the street, then learned the rules of one-on-one and grew interested in collegiate play, mostly because of the buzz he'd picked up from nearly everyone in town. Kansas City was a big-time, college basketball city.

It had been 20 years since Kansas had taken a national title, but expectations were high in 2008. No one believed a Jayhawk football team could have made it to a high-caliber game like the Orange Bowl, let alone won the game. Now that momentum had built into big-time expectation for the school's sports specialists. Kansas was known for its basketball excellence, and anything less than a national title was viewed as a failure of some sort.

Even the mainstream news media had gotten on the basketball bandwagon. Basketball talk even eclipsed political jabber, and already there was plenty of that, with 2008 being an election year.

In February, Will joined one of the city's recreational leagues as a mid-season substitute. He arranged to be off from work every Tuesday so he could hop on a bus to Penn Valley Community College, where the city's metro league met for "all-in-good-fun" games. He didn't know any of the other players on the team to which he'd been assigned and had stumbled through his first few minutes of play, but then hit his fourth attempt at a basket and felt vindicated.

Tasha hadn't made it to that first or second game because she'd had to work. But she was there at the third game, and was immediately jealous that he got to play and she didn't. But it was a men's only league. Even though the distinction didn't exist in many areas in the 24th century, it was everywhere in the 21st.

They both were shocked to discover that racism was still an issue. They had learned in EarthCiv that laws guaranteeing civil rights had been passed more than 40 years earlier, and didn't understand why it still was prevalent, more so in some locations than in others, and going ways between races and ethnicities. Every day in the news, there were accusations of racism, sexism, groupism, discrimination, harassment of some sort.

Tasha dealt with reverse discrimination at times when she volunteered at Reconciliation, which was based on the edge of a neighborhood where the majority of residents happened to be of African ancestry. She quickly learned almost every derogatory name for a Caucasian woman that existed in the English language, and blew them off just as fast, so she gained a reputation as someone who was tough enough to take the worst.

But she still wouldn't go into the church, not even during the Epiphany on January 6. She stayed downstairs in the kitchen, helping to prepare the feast that accompanied the Eastern Orthodox's commemoration of the 12 days after the birth of Jesus. "The Rec" as it was known in the community, always had a special meal on that day, and hundreds of people came for services.

Tasha stayed downstairs at the Rec and considered the irony of everything. The usual crowd of drunks lay passed out in the cold outdoors, near overflowing trash cans on the opposite corner of the intersection of Troost Avenue and 31st Street, where a convenience store (or the "stop-and-rob," as local police labeled it) was doing brisk business, mostly in junk food, cigarettes and liquor.

The store had bars across each of its thick, scratched-up, Plexiglas windows. There were no vending machines, nor even a telephone outside. The store's management did away with the pay phones because too many people were using them for drug deals. There had been so many shootings (one of which sparked a petrol fire) that the store hadn't sold gasoline in years. Even the ice machine had been moved inside, because people either urinated into it at night, or left the freezer doors wide open to cool off during the summer.

It was an idiosyncratic mix; addiction and hopelessness on one corner, and faith emanating from the other. Even through the church's closed doors, Tasha could discern the chants and blessings she hadn't heard since she was a child. Her eyes clouded by memories that included her childhood church engulfed in flames, she turned and walked back into the kitchen.

* * *

**Mid-April, 2008, Lawrence, Kansas**

The University of Kansas did indeed go on to win the national title three months later. That game was a close one, won in overtime, and Tasha had been at the bar cleaning up until 0330. Her ears rang for days from the cacophony that had erupted in the bar—and in Westport—when the KU basketball team fulfilled the expectations of its fans.

A celebration was planned for the team that next Sunday in Lawrence, and both Will and Tasha collectively were relieved that neither of them were working that day. _Sounds intriguing,_ Will had said. So a longer than normal field trip was planned, and that morning they hopped aboard a KC Metro bus and trekked to a depot in Overland Park, a city suburb located on the city's "Kansas side".

From there, they squeezed aboard an overloaded shuttle bus that went back and forth between the Kansas City area and the town of Lawrence, where KU's campus was located around 45 minutes away. Will figured they could spend the day in Lawrence, maybe check out the campus, find someplace to eat and head back to Kansas City.

The bus dropped everyone off 15 blocks south of the parade route, which irked many aboard the bus, but then Will realized the driver had a valid reason: Fifteen blocks away was as close as that driver was going to get.

Tens of thousands of fans had crammed the sidewalks for more than a dozen city blocks along Massachusetts Street, the main drag in downtown Lawrence. They spilled from the sidewalks into the street, climbed trees, streetlamps and drainpipes mounted along the buildings.

Most of Lawrence's downtown area storefront buildings didn't go above three stories high, and fans leaned out every window above the parade route. More people stood on roofs overlooking the parade, and the sidewalks were jam-packed. Despite hosting the state's largest university, the small city of Lawrence really wasn't designed for crowds like these. Then again, a national championship wasn't exactly a daily thing, either.

At around 1500 hours, KU's marching band squeezed past the crowd, and Will immediately felt a bit sorry for the trombone players, who needed extra space to play but really didn't have that luxury. They were marching side-by-side, with their shoulders touching each other's to make it through the surging crowd.

Then came the convertibles, one at a time, slowly pressing forward while carrying their cargo for the customary hero's welcome. First the coach and his wife, then each of the players, and fans lurched forward toward the street for high-fives and close-up pictures. Some of them seemed ecstatic only to touch the cars each player rode in.

Tasha gave a shout-out to one of KU's star players who had been born and raised in Russia. He glanced in their direction, his expression unsure if he'd heard someone congratulating him in Russian over the rest of the crowd, or not. But he still smiled, and waved.

"Nice touch!" Will said.

"Hope I said it right," she replied, and she had to shout in his ear to be heard over the cheering crowd. "My Russian isn't very good."

"Speaking of Russian, you suppose Worf would like basketball?" Will asked later, as they meandered through the dissipating crowd after the last of the players had passed by.

"I don't know about basketball, but he'd like football," Tasha remarked. "He enjoys crunching people. If he played basketball, he'd foul out within a few minutes."

"He'd like hockey, too," Will said. "He'd enjoy putting a puck through someone's teeth."

"What's hockey?"

"Field hockey, only on ice."

"How would you get any leverage on ice?"

"On ice skates," Will remarked.

She stared at him with a blank look on her face.

"What, you've never been ice skating?"

She slowly shook her head, knowing—dreading—where this was heading.

"There's our next field trip! I'm teaching you to ice skate. You'll love it."

* * *

**Late April, 2008, at Midwest Ice Rink in South Kansas City, Missouri**

"OK, let go of the boards."

Tasha barely had been able to wobble across the rubber mats wearing rented ice skates. Will had tightened up the laces so her ankles didn't fall inward, but could tell this was going to be easier said than done.

He finally cajoled her onto the ice, and now she had a death grip on the handrail at the edge of the ice rink.

"You'll never learn to skate unless you let go of the boards," Will implored. He was standing on his own, rented hockey skates about four feet away, but was much more sure of himself. "Just push off and glide forward."

"If I let go, I'm going to bust my ass," she muttered.

"Well, it's already cracked," he replied with a grin.

She glared back, then nodded and smiled. "Nice one, Will."

"So, just give it a try," he said. "Come on. You're blocking people who want to get onto the ice."

She really wasn't. They were buzzing right past her. Children who couldn't have been older than four or five years old were speeding past, with their parents in hot pursuit. And this was supposed to be the "slower" of the four rinks at this huge facility.

"They're skating around me," she replied. "You can skate around me."

"Oh, I'll skate around you—," and he pried her fingers loose from the boards, despite her protests, and began pushing her away from the boards, far enough away that she couldn't reach out and grab them. But she was still standing, and that was a good sign.

"Use your arms to balance and push off with the inside of your skate," Will said, gently pushing the middle of her back with one hand so she'd glide forward. "Or use the toe pick. You've got on figure skates, so you can use the toe pick to push off, and you can also drag it across the ice to stop . . . you're getting it! You're doing fine. OK, here comes a corner . . .you need to veer to the left—what are you doing?"

"Taking a break," she said, skating straight toward the boards and grabbing onto them. "My feet are cold."

"I told you to wear socks!"

"I am wearing socks!"

"The longer you stand here, the colder your feet will get," Will remarked, then nodded toward the center of the rink, at a little girl who seemed as comfortable on the ice as she was off of it, spinning rapidly on one foot. "Look how much fun she's having!"

"That reminds me of Null-G training, when I threw up in my helmet," Tasha said.

"You threw up because you didn't null out your spin, and then you looked past your handholds," Will said, though he remembered feeling queasy during his own training before figuring out to never look away from his hand and footholds.

"Wait a minute . . . that's why they have all these trash cans around the edge of the ice!" Tasha said. "So people can throw up into them after they've finished spinning around in circles. Someone put a lot of thought into this."

"Well you're not very much fun to skate with," Will said.

"I'm not _good_ at this!"

"Are you telling me that's your only reason for participating in a sport, because you're good at it? That's pretty lame, Tasha," he said. "I'm not very good at basketball but I had a hell of a great time playing earlier this year. You weren't good at throwing a softball, but you stuck out the season and learned how to throw that ball. You know what? I'm going to skate around for awhile because I _am_ enjoying myself. I might even get a hockey stick and take a few shots during open shot time in an hour. You can get off the ice, or you can stay on and learn something new, because I really think you'd enjoy it if you gave it a chance. I can tell you that they probably won't give a stick and puck to someone who can't turn a corner—both literally and figuratively, no pun intended. So if you're interested in joining me later, I'd suggest you figure it out."

"Sounds good to me," she said, her face flushing.

"Great," Will said, skating backwards, away from her, and then crossing over to skate more rapidly. "I'll see you later." And he knew that this would get her hackles up, being chewed out and left behind. _That should do the trick,_ he thought.

He was right.

Within 15 minutes, she was skating as fast as everyone else, only falling once, and getting right back up without a hitch. He taught her to skate backward, which was actually easier for her than skating forward had been. He attempted to teach crossovers, but she wasn't quite ready for those. Her skate blades got tangled in each other and down she went. Her only bad wipeout came when he was teaching her how to turn her blades sideways in an ice-spraying stop. She contented herself with digging her toe pick into the ice to slow down, instead.

"I think you need hockey skates, next time," he said. "So, what do you think? Fun? Good workout? I grew up with this. A lot of kids in Alaska learn to skate at the same time that they're learning to walk."

"Yeah, it's a good workout," she said, a little out of breath. "I didn't think I was this out of shape."

"Skaters use muscles that most of us don't use on a regular basis."

"Isn't that the truth!" she remarked. "I'm sweating in places I never knew I had."

"Ah, that's nice to know, thanks a lot," he said, but they were both laughing. "Come on, let's go abuse some hockey pucks!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Future's Past, part 10**

* * *

**Will Riker's personal log, May 11, 2008, Kansas City, Missouri**

_How many nights has it been? What, seven or eight? At least a week, but I've stopped keeping track since Tasha moved out._

_We'd had another argument. It wasn't as loud as the first blowup we'd had, but there were far too many low blows exchanged, the type that aren't easily taken back. Unfortunately, most of them came from me. And I deeply regret that. _

_Surely she'll come back, after she cools off._

_We made the fortuitous decision to get cell phones around three months ago. I haven't tried to call her, but I hope her phone's battery was well-powered before her hasty exit. She left her charger plugged into the bedroom outlet._

* * *

**One week earlier, May 2, 2008**

Tasha had the kind of evening at work that tempted her to quit her job, and join folks hanging out on street corners. She was tired of people drinking themselves into sickness, of her feet hurting, of being treated like shit by patrons who trampled their way through life. She wanted to throttle a man for whistling to call her to their table, as if she were a dog.

Tonight's bachelorette party had been lively, too long, too crowded. Attendees had been a bit too friendly with the band (not that the band minded), and became so obnoxious that they were cut off from purchasing more drinks.

That resulted initially in arguments. And then, predictably, everyone started getting sick from having piled Long Island Iced Teas atop the glasses of wine they'd sipped earlier.

Tasha was assisting one of the revelers—the maid of honor, as it turned out—toward the bathroom when remnants of the evening came up. The inebriated woman, already wobbly on her feet, slumped into Tasha's embrace and vomited over her shoulder, down the collar of her shirt and the backs of her legs.

Gary sent her home to shower. But it was early enough in the evening that she needed to return to work after she'd cleaned up and changed. She declined his offer of a ride back to her apartment, not wanting to mess up the vehicle's interior, and walked back to the apartment.

Dribbles of vomit had migrated into her socks and shoes. Her entire back was coated with it, and rivulets had run down the backs of both her legs. She was walking with her back to the wind, so it was impossible for her to ignore the stink of half-digested Sushi and liquor. She tried to ignore her left shoe that squished with every step.

But when she arrived at the apartment, she discovered the door had been dead bolted. She couldn't get in without kicking the door open. And the telltale block of wood was hanging outside the door.

"Oh, fuck me. . ." she muttered. _No, fuck him,_ she thought. _He's the one getting lucky tonight. . ._ She knocked at the door, gently at first, then more urgently. She absolutely had to get into the shower. The stink of vomit wafting around her was making _her_ nauseous.

After a couple of minutes, the door cracked open and Will leaned sideways to peer out into the hallway. He was disheveled, sweaty, missing his shirt. She suspected he was missing more than that.

"What is so important?" he hissed through the barely open door. "I'm busy!"

"I need a shower and a new set of clothes," she whispered. "Someone threw up on me but they need me back at work."

"OK, hold on," he replied, then shut the door. _Maybe he's getting dressed,_ she thought.

A minute later, the door opened again—barely—and one pair of jeans and a t-shirt were stuffed through the barely open door, which shut and locked again before the clothes even landed on the floor.

Tasha initially didn't know what to do as she stared at the pile of clothes wrinkling on the floor. Suddenly outraged that he'd lock her out when she really needed to come inside, she kicked the base of the door.

"Will, I am _covered_ in vomit!" she called out, almost shouting, her voice echoing throughout the dark hallways. She knew their neighbors already wondered about them, but up until that moment she never had cared what they thought, before.

Now, it mattered. How messed up was this? Her roommate had locked her out so he could screw around with some woman he'd just met, again. She fleetingly thought about kicking the door in, but that would result in repair bills, plus they'd never be able to secure the door until it was fixed, and then their landlord would be on their case . . .

Humiliated, she picked up her clothes and walked back to the bar. She slipped in the back entrance, and did the best she could to clean herself up with paper towels in the back bathroom. She changed her shirt and jeans, but needed to wear the same shoes and socks. She tied her vomit-covered clothes and socks in a trash bag that she'd take back to the apartment, and had decided that Will was doing the laundry for the next two weeks. He owed her, big time.

"I thought you were going to take a shower," Gary remarked, drawing beer for another group of people.

"Will had company," Tasha replied. "He shoved some clean clothes out the door."

"You're kidding!" Gary said. "He didn't let you in to take a shower?"

"I'll deal with it when I get home."

"I'd like to be a fly on your wall when you get hold of him."

She just shrugged. "I'll deal with it later," she said.

"Now I'm glad you're off tomorrow."

Most patrons were too blitzed to know what had happened to her. Others could tell, but they made their own assumptions. As Tasha delivered four pitchers of beer to the table that included the man who had whistled at her, earlier, he caught that unmistakable whiff of vomit that she'd been unable to completely scrub away with wet paper towels and bathroom soap.

The man made a face at her.

"Goddamn, are you bulimic or what?" he said, and then laughed. Tasha stared at him, failing to see the humor in much of anything, at that point.

**May 3, 2008**

After closing the bar at 0200, Tasha wandered for an hour, then nodded off in JC Nichols Park. She wasn't about to go back to the apartment so she could spend the night in the hallway again. So she watched the sunrise and recalled the last time she'd spent the night in this park, nearly a year ago and under similar circumstances.

_What is it about May?_ she thought, glancing at her watch. The coffee shop was open by then, so she walked three blocks, had a leisurely cup and pretended that everything was just fine. She waited there until 0800, until she was sure that Will's company had departed, and then returned to the apartment.

The woman had left by then. Will was asleep on his bed, barely stirring as Tasha grabbed some clothes and fresh towels, and finally had a shower.

By the time she emerged from the bathroom, she knew what she needed to do and had hoped he would still be asleep so she could quickly pack a bag and get out without an argument. Tasha normally wasn't one to avoid conflict, but she knew if they fought now, she'd say things she'd regret, later. But he was awake, standing at the refrigerator, drinking milk right from the carton. He heard her rummaging around in the bedroom.

"Sorry about last night," he called out.

When she didn't respond, he walked back into the bedroom and saw her stuffing clothes into her backpack.

"Going somewhere?" he said, sounding as innocent as possible.

She glared at him, but kept moving, grabbing two more shirts. "Will—," she began.

"Yes, that's my name," he replied, not hiding his sarcasm.

"—smartass, you aren't even listening!" she interrupted, equally angry.

"What, then?"

"I have slept in that hallway," she said, her voice intense and cutting, more forceful with every syllable. "I have eaten meals on the floor out there while people walked past. I have listened to our neighbors insult you for being such a womanizer, and insult me for putting up with it! And last night, I was locked out again, only this time I was wearing someone else's vomit and I _needed a shower_."

"I gave you some clothes!" Will replied. "Maybe you should bring extra clothes to work, since you seem to be a target for beer and vomit and urine and who knows what else."

"I ought to be able to take a shower in my own apartment!" Tasha countered. "I shouldn't have had to BS my way through explaining to Gary why I'm cleaning myself up with paper towels in the back bathroom. This whole—everything about this is fucked up! I put up with it for awhile—."

"Can you climb out of the gutter and speak Standard?"

"No Standard verb can describe what is going on—"

"Complicated," he suggested.

"Yes! That's—thank you! It's complicated," she agreed. "And _fucked up_. I'm done!"

"Where are you going?"

"Out of here,"

"Where?"

"I don't know, yet," she said, and that was true. She had a few ideas, but only knew for certain that she needed to leave.

"What about rent—."

"I don't know, yet!" she said. "We just paid it, and we've got three weeks. I just need some time, and I need to get out of here before I say something that I might regret."

"I'm glad you've gained some tact, but your impulsiveness still needs work," he said.

She saw no reason to mince more words.

"I really worry about you," she finally admitted, her gaze boring into his. "If we can both catch colds that are going around here—and supposedly we've been vaccinated against all of that—there's some scary, sexually transmitted stuff also going around, and it's not like you've got Beverly Crusher around to bail you out of that mess if inoculations don't protect you."

"Thanks, Mom," he said. "I have better taste than that in my dates," he replied. "Stephanie works at the gallery. You'd like her. She's into yoga."

"Oh, last night it was Stephanie. I see she hung around like all the others did," Tasha remarked. "What is the Will Riker 'ho count these days?"

He stared at her, feeling his anger reach the boiling point within a second. Then he went for the jugular.

"How about I cut right to the point?" Will came back. "You aren't one to be talking. In your pre-Starfleet line of work, you were exposed to at least as much as I have been. Am I right? Only you didn't have a choice in your 'dates'," he continued, completely intending to hurt her, throw her off balance. "I'd be willing to bet there was as much disease on Turkana as there is, here. But you came out of that all right, correct?"

"In one manner of speaking," she replied, through her teeth, figuring that he couldn't have understood the ramifications of what he'd just said. It had taken a Federation hospital admission just after her escape from Turkana to treat the physical scarring, both from trauma and from disease. She was told that she was lucky, that she would heal completely, and that she could still have children if she wanted to.

_I guess I came out of it all right, minus a lifetime of nightmares and near-paralyzing insecurity, and always second-guessing my worth. . .hey, I came out of it all right, Will._ But she wasn't going there outwardly. She knew that was his aim, to tear her down so she'd back off.

"Is sex all you think about?" she said, trying to redirect the assault back toward him, to ignore that he had really, really hurt her with what he'd just said. "Is that the extent of your relationship ability?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Well, at least someone living in this apartment is having a relatively normal sex life," he came back. "At least with something that isn't on a positronic network."

She didn't bat an eye, though she hadn't prepared for him to bring Data into this.

"You're rolling with low blows this morning," she said, walking toward the door. "Hope you feel better, now that _that_ one's out there, too."

"Thought I'd do an encore comeback after your 'ho count' remark," he replied. "Because you're not the one to be talking."

_I need to get out of here, _she thought, genuinely hurt but still holding her head high, still thinking of the next comeback. That was about all she had left; withering pride and a smartass attitude. She glanced around the apartment, hoping she had everything that she needed, because she could feel a lump building in her throat.

"Well, my regards to Stephanie Sloppy Seconds, or whatever the hell her name is—" Tasha finally said, pushing past him as she walked toward the door. But he wasn't finished with her, yet.

"How comforting, to have a tough-upbringing-sob-story so people will feel sorry for you," he added, and he wasn't moving from where he stood in the kitchen to follow her. "Must be nice to be able to omit that you worked in a brothel, but I guess it's convenient, isn't it? No one feels sorry for a whore."

"_I hate you,"_ she hissed through clenched teeth, refusing to look back even as she slammed the door behind her.

* * *

**43rd Place, May 12, 2008**

Tasha had picked up weather-related cynicism in the past year, watching bar patrons shouting at TV weathercasters who interrupted programming over and over. Litigation-leery TV station managers directed broadcasters to overreact rather than risk being sued by viewers who felt they weren't warned sufficiently about impending danger.

The result was incessant breaks in programming, which quickly grew old, especially to native Midwesterners who knew how to read tweather patterns. Sports weren't the only programs that elicited a response from the bar crowd.

One perky, local weathercaster who meant well but viewed every rainstorm as potential catastrophe for the entire viewing area, stayed on the air much longer than all the others. As clouds began bubbling up across the central plains, she often interrupted regularly scheduled programming for a long-winded description of . . . nothing.

"What the hell?" one of the bar patrons was getting upset. "We're gonna miss _Survivor_!"

"What's going on?" Tasha asked. She'd just come back down the stairs, empty tray in hand, and heard the groans that usually meant someone had either fouled out or dropped a ball. But the game wasn't on. Instead, they seemed fixated on a popular network program that seemed stupid and staged to Tasha. But bar patrons enjoyed it, so it brought in business. Some crowds even had viewing parties there.

People in this century seemed so easily entertained.

But instead of watching bedraggled campers bickering at each other and participating in 'challenges,' they got to hear about the jet stream and downdrafts.

"Oh, it's raining in Chillicothe," Gary muttered. "Nothing's going on! Lady Doomsday just likes to hear herself talk. I'm waiting for her to tell us to put football helmets on our kids and have the whole family sleep in the basement. Remember when she did that last year—?"

"This is Tornado Alley!" the patron said, laughing throwing his hands in the air. "The wind blows and it rains here. If people are too ignorant to know what to do, they need to get the hell out! Move to Alaska!"

That remark reminded Tasha of Will Riker, an Alaska native who wasn't at the bar tonight to defend his home. He hadn't come in at all in the past week, and that was fine with her. She had hopped aboard a city bus after leaving the apartment, and rode all the way up to North Kansas City, across the Missouri River and back again, just considering her options. She remained so angry at him that she had to force herself not to think about him, so her thoughts didn't snowball.

Though she was welcome to stay at Reconciliation, she was reluctant at first to do that until Day 3, when she finally told her manager that she and Will were "having problems, but he's not a danger to me and we're just taking a break" and that she needed someplace to stay until they worked things out, one way or another.

The Rec manager, LaDonna, was only upset about one thing: That Tasha hadn't said something sooner. When she wasn't working at the bar, she became entrenched in life around the Rec, complete with the usual crowd of drunks who showed up for their daily bread. At this point, she knew many of them on a first-name basis.

The center and adjacent church were in the throes of preparing for it annual community festival, so that kept Tasha busy, making phone calls and helping organizers to plan a festival she hadn't been to, before, where there would be plenty of music and activities and food. She liked being busy. It kept her from thinking too much.

* * *

**Gillham Park, Kansas City, Missouri, May 14, 2008, 1430 hours**

The weather had been unusually hot and humid all day. By noon, the digital thermometer at The Rec registered 90 degrees. Tasha had grown accustomed to the Fahrenheit scale, but was always relieved to see the Celsius measurement . . . though, not on this day, when it said 32 degrees. _Yuck, and it's only noon,_ she thought.

News outlets had been squawking about the weather all morning, about how it was supposed to get ugly later in the afternoon. But it was always "supposed" to get ugly, and then it would only rain, and then bar patrons would shout at the television weathercasters for "making too much out of nothing".

Tasha was walking to work, cutting across Gillham Park, five blocks from work but only a couple of blocks from the apartment. She stole a glance in that direction, but quickly saw something else that ominously caught her attention.

The sky toward the southwest was darker than usual, and clouds were roiling overhead, moving in her direction. Gillham Park was large enough that Tasha knew she wouldn't have time to make it to any structure, let alone to the bar.

Tasha heard the wind picking up, and opted to cower beneath the only shelter immediately available: A tree.

Large drops of rain began pummeling the area, then blew sideways. Tasha braced herself behind the tree, where the wind wasn't as intense, but still was immediately drenched by the torrential wind picked up again, and chunks of hail began shattering on the nearby sidewalk.

Huddled next to the tree, Tasha covered the back of her head with one hand, and held onto the tree trunk with the next. Winds were whipping around her, and anything that wasn't tied down went flying past: Tree limbs, innumerable leaves, trash. She felt several, hard objects strike her, felt her eyelids being peeled off her eyes. She tried to stand up, intent on running across the street to the nearest building. But the wind made standing difficult, and walking next to impossible. So she hunkered down again, on the opposite side of the tree, which offered only 20 centimeters worth of protection against the whipping wind and hail. She felt something strike the top of her head.

Tasha didn't know her scalp was bleeding until after the wind let up a few minutes later. Entire tree branches were down, car alarms blared all around, and the city took on an eerie cast of light. Torrential rain still fell, but by then the wind had let up enough for her to run to the nearest building.

Somewhat dazed and bleeding, Tasha stepped over clumps of leaves and debris and waded across a flooding side street to an apartment complex. The building was locked, but it had an overhang so she could assess her situation.

She was drenched to the bone, but could feel and taste blood dripping into her mouth from someplace on the top of her head. Initially rebuffing attempts by passersby to go to the hospital, she finally blurted the excuse that she planned to go home, instead, and that it was "just over there," she'd said, nodding toward her own apartment building, one block away.

But she walked past it, and retreated to the bar, instead.

* * *

**43rd Place Bar & Grill, May 14, 1500 hours**

"Oh my God, were you outside when that hit?" Shaun Conaghan greeted Tasha Yar as she straggled inside.

There was no electricity, and the bar would be closed for business until power could be restored. Some patrons waited for the rain to subside before leaving. Tasha was immediately worried about the potential for looting, since she didn't know how widespread the damage was. Electrical outages made businesses prime targets.

She trudged inside the bar, leaving puddles everywhere she stepped. Rainwater dripped off her jacket, and a thin line of blood trickled down the left side of her face. Her bedraggled appearance drew some good-natured cheers from some regulars, but concern from others.

"You OK?" Shaun asked again. He was worried, by then. She hadn't snapped one of her typical comebacks, but instead trudged back to the employee bathroom. "Hey, your head's bleeding."

"I'm all right," she finally replied. "I just need to be back here for a minute."

"There's no light back here," Shaun said. "We don't have any power."

Tasha nodded, stopping to drop her bag behind the bar. She finger-combed her soaked hair away from her face, then winced when her fingertips touched one of several lumps on her head. "I tried to cut through that park on Gillham, and didn't make it," she said. "I never thought it would be that bad."

"Those hailstones were as big as golf balls," Shaun remarked. "Like you needed another hole in the head."

Tasha didn't know how big a golf ball was, and didn't care. She only knew that her head felt like it had been pummeled with rocks. Her hands and arms hurt, also, contused from protecting her head. _Better my hands than all over my head,_ Tasha thought.

"43rd Street is closed just east of Mission Road from fallen trees," Gary was saying to a patron about to leave. He'd driven to the bar from his house to check on the damage, and was giving the closed-road report to anyone heading west. Then his brow furrowed as he saw Tasha had a head wound from falling debris. "She all right?"

Tasha nodded her head.

"Look up at me for a second," Gary asked, putting both his hands on her shoulders. Tasha blinked, then glanced up at him.

"What year is this?" he asked.

"2364," Tasha stammered. "No, it's 2008."

Shaun's brow furrowed. "Did you say 2364?"

"No, I said 2008."

"You said 2364," Gary said.

"Yeah, that storm must have knocked me into the future," she replied, her face flushing as she shook her head, hoping it came across as a joke. "I'll be fine."

"You've got to learn to read the weather around here. When you see that darkness over the treetops to the southwest, a wall of dark gray clouds dangling lower, you'd better be finding shelter," Gary said. "From now on, you get inside. I want you to stay here for awhile so I can keep an eye on you. Your head got hit pretty hard."

Tasha only nodded, and didn't argue when Gary ordered her to stay seated while he, Shaun and Al closed the place up. Gary found some ibuprofen for her, which took the edge off her headache.

* * *

Kansas City Power & Light personnel supposedly were on their way, but he suspected it would be a long wait for him. The entire neighborhood was without power.

"How are you doing?" Gary asked after about 45 minutes.

"Oh, I'm humiliated," Tasha replied.

"That's a good sign. That means you'll be all right."

She nodded.

"2364," he remarked.

"I don't know why I said that," she replied, but she could feel her heart beating faster. _Did I really say that? How could I have been so stupid?_

"Anything you want to tell me about?" he asked, straight-faced.

She looked up at him. "Not really," she responded.

He shrugged. "All right, suit yourself," he said. "I'm going to be here until our power comes back on just to make sure nothing catches on fire. Shaun will give you a ride back to your place."

Tasha initially protested, but didn't want to tell either of them why. The _last_ place she wanted to be was the apartment, but she wasn't about to tell Shaun Conaghan that she'd left the apartment, nor that she was staying at a shelter. But Shaun was persistent, and finally she relented to a five-block ride in the front seat of his pickup, which smelled like vanilla beans from a fragrance card that hung from the rearview mirror.

She'd never been inside a automobile, before, and struggled with the seatbelt, having never used one until now. She copied what Shaun did, then watched intently as he activated the ignition with car keys that he'd kept in his pocket.

"Where's your apartment?"

"37th and Washington," she replied, already formulating a plan of action after she arrived. She'd play along with being dropped off, but wasn't planning on going upstairs.

"This is it, right here," she said.

"Sure you're all right?" Shaun asked as she struggled to unlatch the seatbelt.

"Yeah, I just . . . don't know how to get this loose," she said, somewhat flustered. He reached over and pushed the bright, red button, and the belt unlatched. "Thanks," she said, and stepped out of the truck. "You working tomorrow?"

"No, I get to take a pharmacology final tomorrow," he replied. "I'll be in on Friday and Saturday."

"I'll see you Friday, then," she said. "Thanks for the ride."

Tasha walked into the apartment building, rounded the corner after climbing the first flight of stairs, then stood against the wall where Shaun couldn't see her through the front door. One minute later, after she was sure Shaun's vehicle had left the neighborhood, she exited the apartment complex and walked back north, toward The Rec.

* * *

**At the apartment, May 15, 2008, 1130 hours**

Will was shaking his head at himself, wondering what had possessed him to leave the southwest corner window open when he knew there was bad weather approaching. The storm had struck yesterday, and even though he'd slammed those windows shut and had blotted dry the carpet, it still was damp and now the apartment smelled dank.

It didn't help that there was no electricity, thanks to the storm, so there was no air conditioning. But otherwise, Will didn't possess much that needed electricity. His cellphone had been charged when the storm hit, and now the charger cord sat idle, alongside Tasha's cellphone cord, which she'd forgotten to grab.

He was re-reading yesterday's paper when his cell rang, and a dart of adrenalin shot through him. He hoped it was Tasha.

"Hey, Will, it's Shaun Conaghan, from softball."

"Hi, Shaun! How are you?" Will replied.

"I'm glad to be done with finals," he said. The pharmacology final at 8 that morning had been an absolute bitch. "I was just checking up on Tasha. Is she all right? She's not answering her cellphone."

"She's not here," Will replied, a pang of concern arcing through him. "Why wouldn't she be all right?"

"What, she didn't make it into the apartment?"

"She moved out last week," Will replied. He no longer saw any no point in lying about it. "What happened?"

"She got caught outside when that storm came through and hailstones hit her on the head," Shaun said. "She was sort of dazed, so I dropped her off at the apartment late yesterday afternoon."

"She never came into the apartment," he replied. "She forgot her cellphone charger, so her phone probably is dead."

Shaun sighed. "Shit," he said. "Man, I'm sorry. I didn't know all that had happened."

"Yeah, me too," Will replied. "And now I'm worried. I've been here since I got home from work Tuesday night, so if she'd been here, I'd have seen her."

"You know where she's staying?"

"No, I don't," he replied. "She volunteers at a shelter at 31st and Troost and she goes to that dojo off Broadway and 39th. She might be there. I'll try getting hold of her and have her call you back. Other than that, I don't know where she'd be."

* * *

**Reconciliation, May 15, 1330 hours**

"Hey, Tasha, you got a phone call," LaDonna shouted across the gymnasium, where Tasha was shelving folded-up stretchers that had been used the night before. LaDonna already had confronted Tasha about the bruises on her arms, and wasn't sure Tasha hadn't just been in a fight, instead of being out in the weather like she said she was.

_Hope it's those folks from St. Theresa's_, Tasha thought, striding into the office to take the call. She was waiting for one more vendor to return a call about the community festival, and had placed a call the week before to St. Theresa's Hospital. But it wasn't the hospital calling.

"How are those lumps on your head?" the voice on the other end was to-the-point.

It was Will Riker.

"My head is fine, thanks," she replied, forcing coolness over her voice even though she was a bit flustered inside. _How the hell does he know about what happened,_ she thought.

"When are you coming back?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Well, you need to do two things," he said with a terse tone, because he was in no mood for going nowhere. "You need to come get your charger cord. It's here in the apartment. And you need to call Shaun Conaghan, and tell him that you're all right. He was worried about you and called me, since you weren't answering your cell phone."

She didn't reply, her mind in tumult.

"Are you there?" he finally asked.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"When are you coming back?"

She was silent.

"Tasha . . ." he began.

"I need to go," she said, and abruptly hung up the telephone.

* * *

**43rd Place, 1430 hours**

On his way to work that afternoon, Will stopped at the 43rd, to offer his olive branch. He didn't know whether she'd be there that early, or not. Gary was there, but Tasha hadn't arrived, yet.

Hi, Will," Gary remarked. "How've you been?"

"I've been . . . in the doghouse," Will replied.

"I heard Tasha was the one in the doghouse."

"She's the one who left, I'm the one in the figurative doghouse," Will said. "I brought her cellphone charger. She stormed out of the apartment without it."

"I'll make sure she gets it when she comes in to work this afternoon," Gary replied, grabbing the wound-up cord off the bar and stashing it beneath the back counter. "You want something to drink?"

"No, but thanks," Will said. "I've got to be at work in 20 minutes.

"How about a glass of water, at least?"

Will nodded. "Sure," he replied.

Gary slid a small glass of ice water down the bar toward Will, who was glad to have it.

"You have any storm damage?" Gary asked, figuring he'd continue the conversation with something simple, before getting to the meat-and-potatoes of what he really wanted to know.

Will shook his head. "Just wet carpet from having the window open," he replied. "It's still drying, but it should be all right. How about you?"

"Lost power here, had a few branches down onto the back deck, but no real damage," Gary said. "Tasha came in here yesterday with lumps on her head and blood running down the left side of her face, from being outside when the storm hit. She was a little out of it, so I asked her some easy questions, what year it was. Know what she said?"

"Uh, 2008?" he replied. _What else would she have said?_

"She said 2364," Gary said.

_Oh shit, _Will thought, suddenly grateful that years of poker playing had given him a nonchalant expression, even as a jolt of semi-shock shot through him. "She said what?" he managed to reply.

"The year 2364."

"Why the hell would she have said 2364?" Will asked, trying to foist across the most innocent tone he could.

Gary shrugged. "I don't know," he replied. "Just thought it was interesting."

_If we get found out, we'll wind up in the mental health ward, or under arrest, or both,_ Will thought. _What the hell was she thinking?_ He forced calm over himself.

"That is interesting," Will finally said. "Other than not knowing what year it is, how's she doing?"

"Fine, as far as I can tell," Gary replied. "Very pissed off at you. She hasn't said much about it, but I can tell she's pretty mad."

"Yeah, I screwed up," Will remarked, admitting it outright. "I was thinking with one head, and one head only, that night."

"Your date must've been something," Gary replied with a glint in his eye.

"She sure was," Will replied. "Hey, aren't you married?"

"Well, Kim and I have a rule," Gary said. "I'm a guy. I'm gonna look at beautiful women even though I'm married to one, and Kim's gonna drool at the triathlete who trains down our street even though she's married to a 45-year-old guy whose hair is thinning and going gray. Bottom line, we can window shop. We just can't go try anything on, know what I mean?"

Will nodded, grinning back. "That's a fair rule."

"I thought you and Tasha weren't a couple."

"Oh, we're not," he replied. "It's just . . . complicated."

Gary nodded. "I don't doubt that."

* * *

**43rd Place, Friday, May 16, 2008, 2330 hours**

Thanks to a packed house of patrons (many of whom had just finished Finals Week from the nearby University of Missouri's Kansas City campus), Tasha could pretty much avoid anything more than work-related conversations with Gary Tobin and Shaun Conaghan.

Gary knew that things had happened, but wasn't one to sweat things that weren't major. He also knew her well enough by then to understand that the best therapy was hard work, and this was a good night for that. But Shaun didn't so much as look at her for a couple of hours, then saw his chance when he saw her retreating to the back bathroom. He was waiting in the back hallway when she reemerged, and cut right to the point.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd moved out?"

She stopped in her tracks. "Because I don't like dragging people into my business."

"You still could have told me," he said. "I tried calling you that next morning to make sure you weren't dead."

"Yeah, Will told me you called."

"And he told me you'd moved out last week," Shaun said. "You didn't need to lie to me about that."

"I don't want to talk about this, right now—," she began.

"I was worried about you!"

"Thanks, but I'm not going to discuss this—" she pushed past him, intending to dive right back into work. He knew better than to physically stop her from leaving. She could toss him over the bar counter without much effort if she wanted to.

Still, she sensed him right behind her, she turned and shot him a dirty look. He immediately backed off, holding his hands up and glaring right back at her. He grabbed a tray and disappeared upstairs while Tasha darted behind the bar.

"Holy mofo, did you see that?" observed the tipsier of two women sitting at the bar. They had seen the interaction between Tasha and Shaun. Thanks to their out-loud observation, so had Gary.

"Tasha," Gary said.

"Yeah?" she took a few steps to stand beside him, so she could hear what he was saying over the live band's tuning up.

"I don't know what it's about, and I don't care," Gary remarked, quietly but firmly. "You two will cease fire while you're working in here. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Tasha replied, instinctively adding the 'sir'.

"Stop 'sirring' me," he remarked, half smiling. "I just manage the place."

Tasha and Shaun ignored each other for the rest of the night, until 0115, when Tasha was upstairs, piling empty glasses onto a tray to be delivered to the dish room. Shaun was doing the same thing, without a tray, across the other side of the upstairs loft.

After crossing the loft while hoisting eight glasses by their rims, Shaun plopped them all onto Tasha's tray.

"I've got this," he said tersely, starting to slide the tray toward the edge of the table so he could pick it up more easily. But instead of picking it up, he took a step closer to Tasha and leaned against his knuckles onto the table, looking sideways at her.

"I know you're tougher than any of us, which is great, because I was tired of getting my ass kicked by drunks before you started working here," he said, keeping his voice low in case anyone — especially Gary — might be within earshot. "But if you want to keep ignoring people who care about you, that's chickenshit cowardly, and that's not you."

Her initial, angry glance in his direction softened somewhat, but remained intense.

"So, I'll see you tomorrow," he said, hoisting the tray to carry it downstairs. "And don't forget your charger cord. I don't want to know where you'll be plugging it in."

* * *

**43rd Place, Saturday, May 17, 2008, 1550 hours**

Pre-rush time at the bar was typically quiet enough for bartenders and wait staff to restock and prepare for the Onslaught of the Thirsty, as Shaun put it. He was in a giddy mood, having finished his finals earlier that week, and was looking forward to taking the next week off to go to Truman Lake with his parents and younger brother.

Tasha had collected all the napkin dispensers throughout the bar so she could restock them all at the same time. Just after she'd hauled another, large packet of napkins atop the counter, Shaun leaned against the counter so that the side of his shoulder touched hers, and deliberately said nothing until she glanced at him.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"What for?" she replied.

"For being an ass the other night."

"You were being a well-intentioned ass," she said. "I'm the one who needs to be sorry."

"You all right?" he asked, quietly.

She nodded.

"That's good, because I'd hate to worry about you while I'm on my dad's boat getting drunk next weekend," he remarked.

"Well, if you're too drunk to fish, then _I'd_ be worried about you," she replied, forcing an impassive expression across her face.

"We OK?" he asked.

"We're OK," she replied. A second later, Shaun abruptly leaned closer to kiss the side of her head. A bit surprised, but not at all ungrateful, Tasha turned toward him and lost the impassive expression battle.

"Oh my God, are you smiling?" Shaun exclaimed, gaining the attention of the still-sparse crowd in the main room. "You are smiling! I got her to smile, again, and look, she's even blushing! Ladies and gentleman, The Enforcer has recovered from her hail experience."

He stacked up eight of the just-filled dispensers and hauled them upstairs, calling downstairs from the loft, "She still smiling, Gary?"

"She's still smiling," Gary hollered back, and winked at Tasha, who nodded.

"You guys . . ," Tasha said, but was glad for the interaction. Her smile was genuine.


	11. Chapter 11

**Future's Past, part 11**

* * *

**At Reconciliation in Kansas City, Missouri, May 19, 2008**

Initially, Tasha thought someone had lit a round of fireworks just outside the office door of the Rec, but an instinctive dread followed immediately. This was Midtown, after all. Then there was the unmistakable sound of tires peeling across the pavement, and screams began slicing through the warm afternoon.

Fully expecting another volley of gunfire, Tasha knelt behind the file cabinet that had been placed near the front wall. She knew better than to just drop to the floor, because if she did that she wouldn't have been able to run if she needed to. She peered out the corner of the window, and saw two people lying on the sidewalk just outside the office.

LaDonna, the Rec's manager who had been in a back classroom, emerged in the front office to see what was happening just as Tasha ducked outside to render aid to the people she saw lying on the pavement.

"LaDonna, call 911 for a shooting," she called out. "It's right outside the door."

One man reclined against the curb, clutching his abdomen. The other victim lay on his back, still conscious but not moving much. Tasha glanced up and down both streets, but the assailant evidently had left.

"We're calling 911!" Tasha called out to the man with the abdominal wound, even as she moved toward the other victim. "You see who did it?"

"I ain't seen nothin'!" the first man replied, as the pain was really beginning to hit. "Ah, shit!"

Cars passed by through 31st and Troost as if it was no big deal, that two men had just been sprayed with bullets. Drive-by shootings weren't unusual in this neighborhood, where longtime apathy had led to an entrenchment. They had "groups", not gangs. They took care of their own, and that included protecting their own and getting rid of their own.

Tasha knelt beside the second victim, took one look at his wounds, and knew he was going to die. He'd been struck in the middle of his upper chest by a bullet that had evidently sliced into his airway and the great vessels surrounding his heart. Blood only trickled from the bullet wound, but poured from his mouth and nose. He was drowning, and aware of all of it, half lying down and half-struggling against his fate.

"Timbo, look at me," Tasha said. She'd known him for months. He was rail-thin addict, and on rare occasions when he smiled, he revealed two lower teeth. The rest had been knocked out, had fallen out, or had been ripped from his mouth for the gold fillings.

Even if he'd been wounded in the 24th century, he would need to be on a biobed within minutes to have survived the cruel fate of drowning by exsanguination. These deaths were swift, but hardly instant, and Timbo knew exactly what was happening.

"The ambulance is on the way," Tasha continued, clamping her hand over the bullet wound, though that did as much good as a band-aid. The internal damage was far more extensive. _He'll be dead before that ambulance even leaves their post_, she thought. _Hell, he's dead already. _

Having already filled Timbo's airway, blood began backing out of the corners of his mouth and pouring from his nose. His head craned backwards in a desperate attempt to draw a breath, and as his head tilted back, blood pooled in his eyes, still open and aware but fading, and his expression betrayed a lifetime of regrets as he lay dying.

His hands clawed weakly toward Tasha. He opened his mouth in a last-ditch effort to breathe through the pints of blood that had poured into his lungs, just as the first sirens could be heard getting closer to the intersection.

Timbo's cough was weak, almost reflexive by then, but strong enough to spray blood right into Tasha's face, into her mouth and eyes. People from the Rec were gathering around, but most of the others who had gathered on the street corners had long ago vanished, upholding the code of silence against snitching.

"I been shot in the gut!" the other wounded man was saying into the cellphone, his fist gleaming with fresh blood but clenched in anger and pounding the pavement he lay upon. "Nobody here! No!"

Police cruisers were on scene within the minute, though it had seemed much longer to Tasha. She had hastily wiped blood off her face by shrugging her shirtsleeves across her eyes as the first officer to arrive on scene approached. Tasha didn't see the officer's scene survey: She was too busy sliding her blood-covered hands across Timbo's neck, searching for a pulse she knew was already gone.

"Were you hit, too?" the officer asked, kneeling beside Tasha and the now lifeless man.

Tasha shook her head, and suddenly everyone at the scene was talking at once.

"I'm starting CPR on him. You know CPR?"

"Motherfuckers ain't hung at all!" the other wounded man was screaming into his cell, angry and vengeful. "You let them have it, 'cause I am fucked up!"

"No, I'm on the chest, don't worry about the breaths!" the officer was saying.

The officer began chest compressions on the man, and each time he forcefully depressed the chest, more blood squirted from the wound and dribbled from the man's mouth.

_This is unreal,_ Tasha thought. _What the hell are you doing to him? This man is dead._ Nothing made sense, anymore, especially when bags of medical equipment began dropping all around her and someone gently tapped her shoulder.

"Are you injured?"

"No," Tasha replied.

"Okay, move out of the way," a medic replied.

Medics and fire crews cut off Timbo's layers of filthy, urine-soaked clothing. They were trading off compression duties every two minutes, and were mindful of TV crews setting up satellite trucks in the parking lot across the street.

"Oh, for the love of God," one of the medics muttered, as he glanced across the street in time to see cameras filming this whole, sad spectacle of a trauma code in progress, a gut shot being hauled away and a Good Samaritan who'd been sprayed in the face with blood.

Tasha stood up and took two steps back, taking in the organized chaos. Around 30 rescuers had shown up, their vehicles clogging the area. A fire engine company strategically parked their truck to block the view from reporters across the street, and another ambulance crew was loading the live victim onto a stretcher that had been dropped to knee-high level. Someone had put a long, red board atop the stretcher, and the victim wasn't happy about being strapped to the board.

"—in the stomach, a fragment might have lodged near your spinal cord," one of the medics was telling him. "It's just a precaution. Keep that mask on your face!"

"I ain't bein' tied on a board!" the man nearly rolled off the stretcher, shoving an oxygen mask away from his face. He still held his cellphone, though he no longer was talking on it.

"You want to bleed to death?" a firefighter was right in his face. "You're bleeding inside your gut. You got to lie down!"

"He can bend his knees up," one of the medics shouted. "Just get him to—"

"—agitated, we've got to just go," another medic remarked. It seemed like the sidewalk was now swarming with police, fire and EMS personnel. "Let's do everything else enroute . . .are they actually _coding_ that other guy?"

They were indeed. Half a dozen medical personnel huddled around Timbo, opened up their bags, and unloaded everything they had. One medic started a large-bore IV, as if flooding his body with isotonic fluid was going to make a difference. Another medic used a drill to bore a hole into Timbo's lower leg, just below his knee, and a second IV line was attached to the drilled-in hub now sticking out of his leg.

"Here, hold these!" the medic handed the IV bag to Tasha, and she stepped forward to hold both bags. "Squeeze 'em as you can so that fluid runs in, and if we tell you to put it down quick, just drop 'em, OK?"

"Okay," Tasha replied, then stayed quiet and out of the way. But she still could hear everything they said.

"—PEA, so let's just do it here and call it," someone muttered. "Watch those needles . . . where's our sharps container?"

"You give Atropine, yet?"

"—the sharps after we left KU Med-"

"Hey, look at this tattoo. . .I think this guy was a 'Nam vet."

"No shit?"

"I gave an amp of Atropine with the IO."

"U.S. Marines."

"He's not ventilating at all."

Timbo had been intubated, suctioned and ventilated some more, but his lungs had consolidated with blood and wouldn't expand. The sidewalk was quickly accumulating Code Blue trash: multiple wrappers that had held everything from bandages to the QuikCombo pads now glued to Timbo's chest. But his cardiac rhythm—or lack thereof—wasn't one that medics could defibrillate. He was too far gone for that. So they did hundreds of CPR compressions, switching off every couple of minutes while the medics alternated medications into his IV and IO lines. Empty, beige boxes of Epinephrine preloads accumulated on the sidewalk near Tasha's feet.

Medics pushed two, large needles straight down into both sides of the man's upper chest, and one of them squirted blood from the catheter hub onto the bunker pants of one of the firefighters, a rookie who hadn't known to stand away.

Timbo was no longer recognizable, his face and neck swelling with air that escaped from direct ventilations into his shredded bronchi. With nowhere left to go, the trapped air had migrated beneath his skin, bulged out his neck and grotesquely enlarged his face and head, now purplish gray in color, except for the drying blood streaks.

"Guys. . ." Tasha found herself saying out loud. _This man is dead! Just stop!_

"We need to call this," the medic kneeling closest to the cardiac monitor was saying, as if he could read Tasha's mind. He was only saying what everyone else on scene already knew, that this was pointless, that they should have pronounced him when they arrived on scene. "This is ridiculous. How much longer is 20 minutes?"

The EMS lieutenant was already on the radio with medical control, begging for permission to field terminate. He monotone-reported the basics: _Patient was found pulseless and apneic, GSW to the chest, only PEA and asystole on the monitor, wasn't responding to anything, can we terminate?_ The radio squawked something back, and the lieutenant stopped resuscitation efforts.

"Thank you!" the lieutenant replied into the portable radio, then turned to the crew. "Okay, we can stop this nightmare."

The crew shut off the flow valve to both IV bags, relieved Tasha of her IV bag holding duties and left both bags lying across the man's bare torso. The firefighter who'd knelt at the man's head disconnected the purple bag that had been used to ventilate the man from the tube that remained sticking out of his mouth, held in place with a foam and plastic device that stretched across his mouth.

It all looked so medieval. But once Tasha heard and saw the lieutenant explaining things to a subordinate, the situation became clear to her. The medics had a student with them, and they had coded this guy for practice.

"You get your darts done?" the lieutenant remarked, then inspected the catheter hubs sticking out from the man's chest. "Did you go into the rib, then under it, or over the top?"

Law enforcement had become fixated on shell casings in the middle of the street, and others were interviewing people who were standing around. But they weren't talking, claiming to have seen nothing. Tasha had already told the officer everything she knew. She truly hadn't seen the shooting as it occurred, but had heard it. Tasha didn't doubt for a second that some of the witnesses not only saw who did the shooting, but probably knew where they lived, too. But the code of silence in place through fear and intimidation was holding fast in Midtown: Nobody saw nothing.

"—hit those nerves and blood vessels, and that'll make things worse," the lieutenant said to a subordinate medic, pointing out technique to the man who had stuck catheter-sheathed needles into both sides of the man's upper chest.

"Hey, thanks for doing what you could for him," Tasha remarked a few minutes later, as the medics were leaving with depleted supplies, empty oxygen bottles and torn apart jump kits.

"No, thank you for helping us," replied one of the medics. "We appreciate it. Were you a friend of this guy?"

"Not really," Tasha replied. "I volunteer at the Rec and he was in here daily. I only knew him by his first name."

"Listen, this guy coughed blood into your face, right?"

Tasha nodded. It was apparent. She'd used her t-shirt to wipe her eyes, but spots of blood had dried across her face, already. Her hair was peppered with it, though she couldn't see it at the time.

"Okay, this is a big-time privacy violation so don't bust me for doing you a favor, but you need to go to your doctor or to the hospital for gamma globulin, or something," the medic said in a quiet voice, in case he was overheard by anyone. "I've run this guy before. He had hepatitis, and he was HIV-positive."

* * *

**JC Nichols Jazz, Kansas City, Missouri, May 23, 2008, 1930 hours**

"—is outstanding. If you would like wine with that, I highly recommend the Stag's Leap Cabernet," Will was in his element, enticing a table of three into purchasing an entire bottle of wine immediately after seating them. "The St. Clement Cabernet is also very good."

Compared to the chaotic cacophony of the bar where Tasha worked, Will's workplace was more sedate, with smooth jazz melodies floating around the entire, softly lit interior. The Connie Evingson Trio was about to begin their set, and the place was nearly packed, as usual.

Will was the maitre d' tonight, a post he generally enjoyed more than merely waiting tables, for two reasons: He got to seat people and chit-chat, and he got to listen to the jazz acts. If no patrons were coming in the front door of the restaurant, Will could coast. He could lose himself in the music while surveying the crowd for anyone who might need anything while the waiters might be busy with another table.

He'd always enjoyed jazz, and had decided that the music selection available in the 24th century was far too limited. _If I ever make it back, I'm uploading everything I can get my hands on from this era. This is great stuff, challenging stuff._ He fervently wished he had his trombone so he could learn more by jamming, but also felt like a novice compared to the great musicians who frequented this establishment, and the others near the Jazz District in Downtown KCMO.

As much as he usually enjoyed this night's assignment, he remained troubled that he hadn't heard from Tasha Yar since she'd left nearly three weeks earlier. This had nothing to do with the rent being due . . . he'd saved enough of his tips that he could pay for rent for another month. This wasn't about that.

He'd been an absolute jerk, a cad, and asshole . . . and a few other names he'd learned in Standard but never liked saying. _Tasha would say them, all of them, to my face, and I would deserve every one of them,_ he'd thought. He decided that if she did let him have it, he would forgive her on the spot, because insubordination really didn't mean much, here.

"Man, you were thinking with one head, and one head only," said Immanuel, head chef at Nichols.

A Brazilian native who'd been living in Kansas City for the past two decades, Immanuel was the kind of chef Will wanted to be, dishing out good food and good advice at the same time. The dinner rush had long-since passed, but a late arrival had wanted a meal made to go. Normally, Immanuel had 20 meals going at once, but now he needed only to prepare one.

"So, how many times have you locked out your roommate for a piece of ass?"

Will had shrugged. "I don't know," he said.

"You don't know!" Immanuel exclaimed, his Portuguese accent more pronounced than usual as he laid a marinated chicken breast on a grille that sizzled in response. "I bet she knows."

"We had an agreement, and I didn't think she was that troubled by it."

"So, what's keeping you two from getting together?" he asked. "I don't understand this whole thing. You're living together, but you're not sleeping together. You're not gay; you say she's not a lesbian. I don't get this."

"It's just how things are," Will replied. "It works for us."

"Well, it's the strangest 'roommate' arrangement I've ever heard of."

"More like brother and sister," Will said. "It works."

"She's your sister?"

"Not that I know of," he replied. "But she might as well be. We antagonize each other like any siblings would."

"So you ever take things for a test ride?"

"What?" Will heard him, but didn't understand.

"Friends with benefits?"

"No," he said, finally understanding. "Wouldn't be appropriate."

"What's not appropriate about it?"

"Didn't feel right," Will replied, flashing back briefly before forcing himself not to go there. Already, he'd said too much.

"So you DID try it out!" Immanuel said, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Aha!"

"Not for more than a few seconds, and it didn't feel right," he replied.

"A few seconds!" Immanuel began laughing. "You know, in my life, I've never been with a woman, so I really don't know. But I hear stories, you know? From what I hear, I think you've got to take more time with a woman than a few seconds."

Will started laughing. "Well, it wasn't like that," he said. "We were on a street corner, I kissed her, she kissed me back, it didn't feel right, we laughed it off. We're just buddies."

As soon as Will said it, he felt as if he were stabbing himself in the gut. _Buddies don't treat each other like I treated her. _

"Man, you got to go find her," Immanuel said, flipping over the grilled chicken and basting it, then stirring the vermicelli. "I don't know her as well as you do, but I know she's resourceful enough that she just might disappear on you, go find someone who treats her right."

_She won't go far,_ he thought. _I've got the combadge, and I've got the phaser._

"How long since she left?" Immanuel asked.

"More than two weeks."

"Oh, that's not good. Maybe she's afraid to come back," Immanuel said. "Maybe she's afraid of what she'd find, that you'd found someone to take her place. In fact, you DID find someone to take her place, repeatedly."

"But Tasha and I are _not_ involved."

"You were living together! Doesn't matter if you're having sex, or not, because if my man were having sex with other people, I wouldn't want him anywhere near me. Hey, stir that vodka sauce."

"I'm not her man," Will said, whisking the vodka sauce for the vermicelli that Immanuel was preparing. "I'm her roommate."

"No, I'm talking about MY man, Bryce," Immanuel said. "If I found out he was having sex with another person in our apartment, I'd want him out of there. Even if we broke up, we weren't having sex anymore, I'd still want him out. It would be too screwed up. I don't know how she puts up with it for so long. Maybe you got a sex addiction problem. Too much of a good thing can mess up the rest of your life. There's more to life than getting laid."

"Yeah, she told me the same thing, once," he replied. "But this isn't about sex."

"Sounds like it was to me," he said, piling the vermicelli atop the plate, and spooning sauce liberally over it. "If I came back after a shift in here and found that do-not-disturb thing hanging outside my apartment . . . man, I'd be kicking that door in and tossing at least one person out. You got to go find her, or she'll find someone else and then your life will be full of regret. Even if you don't sleep together, the good friends are hard to find these days. Go find her."

Immanuel sliced the chicken breast into four pieces, laid it over the bed of vermicelli, and ladled more sauce atop it. "Frank, your vodka chicken's up!" Immanuel said, raising his voice over the dishwasher on the other side of the kitchen.

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, May 23, 2008, 2315 hours**

Will had deliberately stayed away from the bar where Tasha worked, hoping that by giving her some space, she'd come around and return to the apartment. What he didn't count on was that Natasha Yar had already proven that she could vanish onto the streets of just about any place (and now, any time), and figure out a way to hack it. Immanuel was right. She didn't need to come back.

He fervently wished she would. He missed her, terribly.

_An honest friend, no bullshit, no sucking up or ingratiating . . . _

He missed her, and part of him hoped she missed him, too. _That's so adolescent_, he thought._ Maybe I should have Gary help us pass notes during class. _

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, May 24, 2008**

For the past three days, Tasha had vomited everything she'd eaten, and felt as if she'd also puked up everything she was going to eat in the near future. She'd actually called in sick to the bar that last night, when she realized that if she couldn't stand up, she was never going to be able to manage being at work.

Though she had slept fitfully since she'd left the apartment, she hadn't slept much at all since she dealt with the aftermath of a drive-by shooting right in front of Reconciliation's homeless shelter five days earlier. A dying man had coughed blood into her eyes, and one of the responding paramedics told her that he knew the man had something called the human immunodeficiency virus, that she needed to "see a doctor" for something called "gamma globulin".

Her manager at Reconciliation had gotten her over to the indigent care clinic near Swope Park within two hours of the shooting. Tasha had filled out the form, listing where she lived, where she volunteered, where she worked. _Scary, that my alias last name sounds almost normal by now_, she mused, writing "Natasha Harris" at the top of the form.

She wondered fleetingly if Gary's wife, who was a lab technician for a clinic that handled indigent care in KCMO, would be the one to handle her case. _If something comes of this, would she recognize my name and remember me? Would she tell Gary, will I get fired?_ She mused. _I need my job._

The nurse practitioner at the clinic had heard the story about the shooting, nodded sympathetically, and had handed her two medications that supposedly could help prevent the virus from taking hold in her body. They told her that she'd probably experience some fatigue, nausea and vomiting, but that it was important to continue taking the medication. Tasha nodded, numbly, at all the instructions.

"And no unprotected sex. You're considered infectious, so no unprotected sex, even with your boyfriend or husband."

"Yes, I understand," she replied. _As if that's going to be a problem,_ she mused.

"Now, we have counseling services available 24/7 if you need to talk with someone during your treatment. Here's the number," the nurse said, handing her a pamphlet explaining HIV post-exposure management. "There's information in here about AZT and Epivir. Those are the two medications I gave you."

* * *

Tasha figured she could push through it. She always had, before. She could deal with fatigue. But until several hours after taking her first doses of both medications, she had no idea what "nausea and vomiting" truly meant, and that the fatigue and malaise would be incapacitating. She'd spent that first night with her face hovering over a toilet, vomiting and dry heaving until she fell asleep on the bathroom floor at Reconciliation.

The next morning, it was time for the fatigue. She felt horrible, her head split apart from throbbing pain originating behind her eyes. But she'd scheduled to volunteer for the first two hours that morning in the office, until the usual office worker, LaDonna, could make it in from her dentist's appointment.

Tasha had nodded off in the back room, just adjacent to the Rec's office, when the Patriarch of St. Mary's stopped by with paperwork to drop off. Tasha forced herself to stand up and smile, time-stamping the stack of documents that turned out to be baptismal records.

She had walked three blocks to the closest pharmacy earlier that morning, grabbing any over-the-counter remedy she could find to help her through the side-effects. She'd almost immediately popped some immodium, knowing full well that if she were vomiting now, the remaining food in her gut would be coming out the other end later, unless she put a stop to it.

Though Tasha would never set foot in the church, she and the patriarch there had always been on good terms. They had spoken at some length earlier in the year, and he knew she was from the Ukraine, and that her family had died in a fire inside a church (which is more than she usually told people, except Will, who knew almost everything).

Tasha found out later that Father Randolph had scrubbed bloodstains from the sidewalk in front of the Rec, blessing the site after authorities took away the remains of Timbo, a former U.S. Marine who'd fallen into drug and alcohol addiction after returning from the Gulf War. Father Randolph had seen it all before, and knew the deliberateness with which Timbo had numbed himself once he'd learned he was HIV positive, most likely from shooting up heroin so he'd sleep at night.

Timbo hadn't been the target at all. It had likely been the other man who was wounded in the abdomen, who'd cursed his fate and everyone around him. The man had ordered a hit on the people who'd shot him, though he'd lied to law enforcement officers and claimed that he didn't know who it was. Such was the code of silence in Midtown KC. Timbo was in the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on who was speaking about it.

But for Tasha, Timbo went out in a better way than he would have gone out otherwise, lying in bed with no immune system left, wasting away until his heart gave out. She was a soldier, as was he, and felt that going fast seemed a much better fate than a slow death. She'd done enough reading from the clinic's free pamphlets by now to know the basics of what usually happened to HIV patients who didn't get treatment. And even with treatment, the virus still was there.

People didn't die of the virus, but of complications from the virus destroying the immune system. Those complications were horrifying for Tasha to comprehend, as much as the possibility that she may someday be debilitated if the virus took hold within her own body.

"It's a brave thing you did, being with him as he lay dying," Father Randolph told Tasha that next morning, even as Tasha's head was spinning from feeling so sick.

She shrugged. "I'm just glad he didn't die out there, alone."

"You've seen your share of death," he replied.

"You are correct."

"You know you're always welcome to chat, anytime."

"Thank you—," she started to say, and the ringing telephone cut that thought off. She glanced at the caller ID, and couldn't help but grin. "I think this one's for you, anyway."

"That's how it goes," he said, grinning back. "I'll be upstairs in the parish office in about 10 seconds."

Until that instant, Tasha hadn't missed Will, yet. She had almost called him earlier that day from the Rec, then thought better of it because she didn't want to be dumping this shit on him. But he needed to worry about it as much as she did. He was at risk from banging multiple partners. She got a face full of blood from a dying man.

_What if my immunities aren't enough? What if this was mutated, a form of the virus that died out long before the vaccine was developed? What year did they finally develop a vaccine? Ten years from now, or 50? _She didn't know. That night, she slept fitfully, waking nearly every 30 minutes or so as she lay on the foldout stretcher amidst dozens of other people. The what-ifs were driving her nuts.

Inwardly, she was terrified. Wasting away from disease was not how she wanted to leave her life, regardless of the timeframe in which she was living it.

She actually rode the bus to work on Day Three of taking her antiretroviral meds, wracked with nausea and hoping she could make it through her shift at the bar.

**At the 43rd Place Bar & Grille, Kansas City, MO, May 24, 2008**

"Hey, stranger!" Gary said from behind the bar.

"Hi, Gary," Will said, somewhat self-conscious.

"Tasha's in the back—" Gary began.

"Great," Will replied. "I'd really like to speak with her at some point."

"Yeah, so would I," Gary replied.

Will's brow furrowed. "What's going on?"

"She's sick again," he said, shaking his head. "Got me kind of worried. I've been trying to get her to go home, she sucks it up, comes back out here, and then 30 minutes later she's in the back puking again."

The back bathroom was about the size of a maintenance closet on the _Enterprise_, maybe one meter by one meter. Gary tapped on the closed door.

"Hey, Tasha, Will's out here," he said. "Can you open up?"

"It's unlocked," she said, her voice somewhat muffled through the door.

She was on the floor of the tiny bathroom, sitting on her lower legs. Her head was buried against both arms, which were folded across the toilet seat.

"Hey, you're going home," Gary said. "I don't know what you've got, but I don't want it, and our customers don't want it, either. Will's gonna help you home, all right?"

"I didn't know you'd called him," Tasha muttered, supporting her forehead with a closed fist.

"I didn't," Gary said. "He just showed up. Come on; swallow your pride, all right? Go home, and get yourself feeling better so you can start playing softball next week, remember? I'm going back up front."

Gary moved out of the bathroom, and Will set one foot inside.

"Hey," he said.

She scooted back away from the toilet, sitting on the floor and leaning her head back against the wall. She didn't respond, and didn't look up at him. Instead, she kept her eyes shut. She looked horrible, pale and exhausted.

"You know, I've got food in the apartment and I'm not a bad cook," Will said. "You didn't need to resort to dumpster diving to get this sick."

She shook her head.

"I'm sorry," he said, restraining himself from putting his hand on her shoulder. He knew better. "I stopped by to talk, but I didn't know you were sick."

"Yeah, I'm . . . sick," she said. "Did you bring the phaser, by chance?"

"No, it's at the apartment."

"Oh, damn . . .I'd hoped you could just shoot me," she muttered, only half-joking.

He ignored the last remark and touched her pale forehead with the back of his hand. _She looks terrible,_ he thought. _Like she hasn't eaten in days._

"You don't have a fever," he observed. "That's a good thing."

"I haven't run a fever."

"What's going on?"

She shook her head, again.

"Are you pregnant?"

She sighed. "No, I'm not," she replied after a few seconds. "But how could I be pregnant, right? Guess you probably already knew that."_ Pregnant . . . who the hell are you kidding, Will?_

"I haven't heard from you in three weeks," Will said. "I don't know anything about what's going on with you, at this point."

She still wasn't looking at him. "If you're here to yell at me, I'll need to come back later, because I'm really not—."

"I've been worried sick about you!" Will exclaimed.

"I've been sicker."

"I can see that. I'm sorry. You're worrying your boss, too."

"I know," she replied. More than anything, she wanted to cut right to the point she'd been ignoring for weeks. _How can I ever trust you, again, when you took those low blows the last time we talked? _But her head was spinning, and by then she was too sick to care.

"So let's get out of here," Will said, offering his hand to help her stand up. "Come on, I'll help you up. Let's go home."

* * *

She insisted she was able to walk without assistance, though Will had his doubts several times whether they'd make it to the apartment before she fell over. He'd insisted that he carry her duffel bag for her, and for once, she didn't argue with him. It was all she could do at that point to carry her own body weight.

The streetlights illuminated the dark circles beneath her eyes, and Will had been especially worried with he'd helped her stand up in the bar's bathroom. Her normally muscular arms seemed thinner, which couldn't have happened overnight.

She'd stopped once during the trek home, kneeling in the grass next to some shrubbery, dry heaving violently until tears seeped from her eyes. After another minute, she sensed him kneeling beside her and felt his hands on her shoulders, helping her to stand again as she struggled back to her feet.

She trudged the rest of the way back to the apartment stairs with her head down, literally visualizing each step ahead of her, and knowing that if she stopped to rest again, she might not be able to go on. Still wearing all her clothes, she flopped onto her bed, while Will puttered in the kitchen. He said he was fixing something to help her stomach feel better.

Her eyes began floating shut. The nausea was returning, just as she was at a place where she could rest. Now she couldn't. She'd be dry heaving all night.

A few minutes after she lay down and had begun swallowing her vomiting impulses, Will sat on the edge of her bed. She opened her eyes slightly, but didn't seem disturbed that he was sitting on her bed. Even in the dimly lit bedroom, he could see near-dried tear tracks still on her face from her dry-heaving stint earlier. She hadn't even bothered to wipe them away while she was staggering the remainder of the way to the apartment.

"Tash," he said, holding the cup out to her. "Here."

"What's that?" she muttered, looking up at him.

"Ginger tea," he said. "It'll help alleviate the nausea. Can you sit up?"

She pushed herself up with one elbow, then forced herself to sit upright. "I've never been this sick in my life," she muttered, her voice shaking.

"Drink some of this."

Slowly, Tasha's slightly shaking hands took the mug of tea and sipped it. "Potent," she said.

"It works," he said. "I know from experience."

"Hope you didn't experience this," she said, sipping half of the tea before lying back down.

"Better?"

She nodded, not looking at him, mostly because her eyes were filling up, again. "A little, thank you."

"You're wise to take it easy," Will said. "Even if you only drank some, it'll help."

Tasha handed the cup back to him, and he put it on the plastic crate that she used as a nightstand. She had curled up on her side, her knees curled up a bit, her arms gently folding around herself.

"If you need anything, you know where I'll be," he said, gesturing to the bed only 10 feet away. She turned her face upward to nod at him and as she did, a single tear slipped down the side of her face.

"We can talk later, OK?" he said, not wanting to make her uncomfortable by reaching toward her to brush the tear away. He was inwardly relieved, because if she was producing tears, it meant she wasn't dangerously dehydrated and probably would be fine with rest and fluids. She was so exhausted that she didn't seem to be aware of it, anyway.

"Get some sleep," he added, then grinned softly at her. "That's an order."

"Yes, sir," she replied, her eyes floating shut.


	12. Chapter 12

**Future's Past, Chapter 12**

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, Kansas City, Missouri, Earth, May 25, 2008**

Will woke early the next morning, and immediately checked on Tasha. She was out cold, curled up on her bed with her back to the wall, as usual, and still wearing all her clothes. She wasn't as ashen as she'd been the night before, when she'd made it back to the apartment through sheer willpower.

Will took a quick shower, then double-checked his work schedule on the pocket calendar that he carried with him nearly everywhere. Handwritten, antiquated, even in the 21st century at the dawn of cellphone-based calendars . . . but it told him all he needed to know. He was not scheduled to work that night, thankfully. He would have called in if he'd been scheduled. He wasn't about to leave Tasha alone, today.

She slept until the middle of the morning, and then staggered into the bathroom for a shower. She emerged 15 minutes later, wearing her usual t-shirt and workout Capri pants that she tended to lounge in, and curled up on the opposite side of the couch beneath the throw blanket.

She had run a comb through her wet hair, and was letting it air-dry, which was typical. She'd let her hair grow longer than it had been on the dry, climate-controlled _Enterprise_, mostly because it was easier to manage in the American Midwest when it was longer. When humidity spiked in the spring and summer months, Tasha could just tuck it behind her ears and forget about it.

"Good morning," she said, her voice a bit stronger, but still raspy.

"Good morning," he replied. "Feeling better?"

"A little," she said. "Thanks for taking care of me."

"I'm glad you're feeling better," he replied, smiling a bit. "You look like you feel better. Want some more ginger tea?"

"Please," he replied. "That's the first thing I've kept down in three days."

_I wonder what she's got,_ Will thought, as she curled up on the couch. After another minute, she grabbed the front section of the newspaper. It was two days old, but she seemed fixated on it even as water began simmering on the stove.

"I never knew this guy's real name," she remarked, seemingly out of the blue.

"Hmm?" he said, straining the ginger root slice from the cup of tea just before he handed it to Tasha and sat beside her to glance at the article, a news brief about a double shooting in Midtown.

"There was a drive-by shooting outside the Rec several days ago," she said, taking the cup of tea from him. "Thanks. I went out to help, and one of the victims was a regular. I just knew his nickname. But here it lists him as Timothy Patton."

"You were there when that happened?" Will said.

She nodded, and took a sip of tea. "He was hit right here," she continued, holding her hand to the upper half of her breastbone. "He was all but dead, coughed blood into my face. Rescuers tried to resuscitate him, but they stopped because it was obviously not going to help him.

"Anyway, one of the medics said the man was HIV-positive, so, the manager at the Rec took me to Swope Park clinic, and they gave me medications that are supposed to thwart both viruses, and that's why I've been so sick," she said. "But she told me that with a blood splash to my eyes, there's a three percent chance of contracting the infection."

"We've both been vaccinated against HIV," Will said.

"We are, but I couldn't tell her that," Tasha said. "I didn't think the vaccine had been developed, by this year."

"But if you were vaccinated in the 24th century, you're probably fine."

"She told me that the virus has been difficult to develop a vaccine for because it mutates so fast," Tasha said. "Do you remember much from human physiology?"

"I didn't do well in that class."

"A vaccine is developed from whatever strain of a pathogen is available. If this virus mutates, the vaccine we received would have been derived from the mutation that was present at that time, and probably not from the mutation that's present now. Does that make any sense?"

"Yeah, it does, and it means—,"

"—that I could still contract the mutation that I was exposed to," she said. "And so could you."

He stared at her. "What do you mean by that?"

"You know what I mean by that."

The coldest and most awful dread washed across him, a realization that statistically, although she was in more danger than he was, they both were potentially in trouble, but for far different reasons.

"So this nurse told me to keep taking this stuff for one month, but she had to be kidding," she continued. "I need fluids and food to live. And I need to make a living. I don't need to be puking all the time."

"I've got water left if you want a second cup," Will said.

"Maybe later," she said, noticing the entire apartment was picked up, orderly. "The place looks great."

"Thanks," he said. "I hope you stay, because it's your place, too. And it needs to be messed up, again. Things are too neat and orderly when you're not here."

She shot him a playful look, then glanced away, again, setting the empty cup on the table in front of the couch.

"Where's the block that was hanging from the doorknob?" she asked, noticing for the first time that the "got wood" cedar block was no longer dangling from the inside of the front door to the apartment.

"I threw it away," Will said.

She didn't respond.

"It was time to pitch it," he continued. "It was causing more trouble than it prevented."

She nodded and stood up, moving toward the sink and looking out the kitchen window. Sunlight bounced off the adjacent building and filtered across the counter, warming her fingers that now rested atop it as she peered outside.

"How come the sun didn't used to shine in here?" she asked.

"Someone finally cut down that dead, pine tree next door, about a week ago," he replied, standing beside her and nodding out the window, toward the open space where the dead tree had been. "It fell down partially when the storm came through, so they just took the rest of it down."

"Oh," she said. "Well, it needed to be cut down before it fell down, I guess."

"I hope you stay, because I miss you," he said, even as she continued to stare toward the window ledge.

"I miss tripping over your shoes, and I miss your Cheerios-with-hot-sauce breakfasts, and turning off the light after you've fallen asleep with a book over your face," he said. "And I miss just talking and all those little things I'd taken for granted until you weren't here, because I was busy with someone else whose name I don't even remember . . ."

"Stephanie," she said, looking down into the sink at the garbage disposal.

"Oh yeah, Stephanie Sloppy Seconds," he said. His response actually got a smile out of her.

"She still around?"

"No," he replied. "She drank too much coffee and had bad breath."

She sighed, shaking her head involuntarily. "That figures," she said.

They stood silently for nearly 30 seconds, each one desperately wanting to start the conversation they both knew they needed to have. But they also were afraid of saying the wrong thing, and worsening the closing rift.

"You'll be all right, Tash," he said, finally breaking the silence.

It was the use of his nickname for her that brought the initial lump to her throat, and that first lump was always the toughest to get rid of. Exhausted and sick, the stringent control she normally forced over herself quickly began eroding.

"What's the statute of limitations on apologies for saying things I had no right to say?" he asked.

"I don't impose a statute," she replied, then mentioned what she'd said three weeks ago, when she was so angry at him. "And I don't hate you," she added, then crossed her arms in front of her, embracing herself against the flood of emotion that was choking her up. She bowed her head, hoping he wouldn't see how upset she was. "I'm sorry I said that. I didn't mean it."

He slipped one arm around her shoulders—she resisted for half a second, because she was Tasha. But he pulled her close to him anyway, whispering, "_I'm_ the one who should be sorry," into her still-damp hair.

She nodded, hiding her face against his shoulder, struggling to keep her composure. Her arms haltingly slipped around him to return his embrace, and her face silently crumpled against emotions shooting through her.

_This has really messed her up, _he thought, tightening his arms around her, reaching up with one hand to cradle the back of her head. He felt her physically shaking, even as she attempted the breath-holding trick to keep her emotions in check.

"It's OK," he whispered. It was a bullshit platitude, and he knew it. Neither of them cared, at that point.

But it had its intended effect. Her breath caught in her throat as a single, audible sob against his shoulder, and a cascade of them ripped through her seconds later as she exhaled. Then she completely came apart, dissolving into long-suppressed, but mostly silent crying against him as sunlight streamed through the kitchen window.

_About damn time,_ Will thought. _We needed this. Too much has happened, too much has been said. I don't ever want things to get this bad, again, and I don't want to lose you,_ he thought, and his own eyes welled up at that prospect.

Humbled by the emotional impact of what was happening, he wished he could do more for her beyond lending an accepting embrace and unconditional support. He knew that stress and exhaustion catalyzed her breakdown, but also sensed what a tremendous level of trust she still had in him, even after everything that had been said three weeks ago.

"I missed you, too," Tasha finally said against his shoulder, after another minute had passed, her voice still choked up but stronger. "I really did."

Her arms relaxed from around his shoulders and dropped to an easier embrace at his lower back. Will reached up, cradling her tear-streaked face in his hands and gently kissing her forehead before embracing her again so he could hold her longer, sensing she wouldn't mind, and she didn't. She rested one side of her face against his shoulder as his arms folded around her again, not intending to let her go anytime soon.

_I think I missed you more, Tash,_ he thought. And that part felt good, it felt right.

* * *

**May 26, 1445 hours**

Will was sewing a button back onto his work uniform. It had been loose for the past two shifts, and he'd been afraid it would pop off at an inopportune time and wind up on someone's dinner plate. So he purchased a small sewing kit, and set himself up at the kitchen table to sew the button back on.

"What are you doing?" Tasha asked. She was curled up on the nearby couch, reading one of the books that Will had picked up from the used bookstore. She wasn't interested in personal finance, but it was something to read, and she supposed it was good for her. If anything, it would put her back to sleep. Will had wanted her to sleep, and although she'd dozed intermittently throughout the day, she wasn't wired to sleep that much. For months, she'd teased him about having "an engineer's taste in reading" because he'd managed to choose the most bland, technical items to read. Now she was glad for them, because they bored her into slumber.

"I'm sewing a button back on," he said. "It was loose, and it would have fallen off eventually, so I'm doing preventative maintenance."

"Where'd you learn how to do that?"

"My Aunt Anne taught me," he replied. "My mom's sister. My father would have had it repaired by someone else, but my Anne insisted that I learn how to do quick repairs, learn how to cook, learn how to do for myself. I learned how to make ginger tea from her. I think she knew that I'd be on my own sooner than I should have been."

"Sometime when I'm not throwing up, would you teach me how to do that?" she asked.

"Sure," he said. "I'd teach you now if you felt like it. It's a good skill to know, and different than those sutures you've had. What's the latest suture tally for you, three times?"

"Three times," she replied. "Well, four if you count the number of wounds that needed to be sewn up."

He shook his head, but couldn't help smiling. "My aunt actually makes clothing for herself," he said. "She's multitalented and is a very good tailor. I can get by. I can do simple repairs and fix buttons . . . and you, you _get_ sewn."

"Battle scars," she replied, but couldn't help smiling at the analogy. "Your aunt sounds like an interesting person."

"Anne?" Will said. "Oh, she's the absolute best. You'd like her. She never got along with my dad, though. I think those two probably hated each other the moment they met. It wasn't even an oil and water kind of thing. More like oil and dynamite."

He stopped.

"Listen to me. I'm talking about the future in past-tense."

* * *

She slept more that afternoon. Now she was awake, feeling better. She'd even been able to keep some crackers down. But now it was 1800 hours, and time to take the AZT, again.

"Will," she said, staring at the pills in her hand. "I don't even want to take these."

"That's up to you."

"If I do what I'm supposed to do and swallow these pills, my head will be in the bottom of our toilet for the next six hours."

"If I knew I'd been exposed to the actual virus, I'd take the pills," he replied.

"All right," she replied, holding out her hand toward him, the pills sitting on her upright palm. "Here you go."

"No way. I don't _know_ that I've been exposed," he said, shaking his head even as a wry grin crept across her face. "I just said there's a _possibility _that I may have been exposed."

"There's a possibility that I was, too," she said. "But they're still not sure."

"You're being wishy-washy," he replied.

"I don't want to take these," she said, more resolute by then.

"Then don't."

She decided against taking them, but didn't flush them down the toilet, either.

* * *

They lay awake in their respective beds that night, listening to a thundershower rumbling outside and cars splashing past on the street outside their window. As the storm had rolled in earlier, she told him about being caught in the hail two weeks ago, and he admitted that he'd left a window open during the same storm.

"Our apartment smelled like Prince William Sound," Will laughed. "And that tells me that something aquatic lived on the carpet in that corner. Maybe they had a fish tank."

They actually found themselves laughing within minutes, talking about anything other than viruses, being sick or dying. They'd decided they would worry about that tomorrow, when the clinic opened and they would maybe get some answers.

"Will," Tasha asked, out of the blue. "Tell me about Alaska."

He smiled, as comforted by the query as he was by memories of his favorite place in the universe. He looked away, toward the far wall, imagining the mountains and cool sea breezes.

"It's beautiful, it's still as untamed as it was when people first began inhabiting the area," Will said. "It's unstable, always changing, always its own place. Everything about Alaska is big. The Chugach mountains, the Copper River's delta that changes literally every day . . . and everything's bigger than you. Most people take their homes for granted, and I was one of them. Up until a few years ago, I had associated Alaska with my father, but he wasn't even from there."

"Where's he from?"

"Pennsylvania," he replied.

"Oh," she said.

"In the fall, the hills around our house turn crimson from all the bearberry bushes," Will continued, describing what Valdez looked like. "That show only lasts for a few days, and then it's swallowed by snowfall. Even the spruce trees are covered with snow so deep it's over my head by December. That never stopped me or my friends from going up there, and usually one of us got stuck someplace. Only had to be rescued once, and we were lucky. We could have frozen to death.

"I played lots of hockey, and lots of hooky from school," he continued. "Why sit inside when you live someplace like that?"

Tasha smiled in the darkness, imagining that she'd have done the same thing.

"I'd probably be outside, too," she said.

"You'd be cold," he said. "It's cold. It's a humid kind of cold that cuts through people. I grew up with it, so I'm used to it. But you start shivering when the temperature hits 60 Fahrenheit, and there are plenty of days in the summer when that's the high temperature around Valdez, and we were all running around in without shirts and barefoot because we thought a heat wave had come."

"Several generations of my mother's family made their living working on fishing boats. They lived and fished off the Aleutian Islands for a couple hundred years after they arrived from Russia," he continued. "They'd fish the Pacific, and they'd fish the Bering Sea. And a few of them died when their boats went down. Even with a survival suit on, you don't last in water that cold. And if you don't have on a survival suit, you die in minutes. Your blood cools, heart fibrillates from the chilled blood moving through it, and you just pass out and sink, and that's it. I used to have nightmares from hearing about people being trapped in ships going down, or tossed overboard and never located in time—of course, they only had minutes, so if you went overboard, you pretty much were dead.

"I think everyone whose family is from that area has at least one relative who never made it back home. It's part of the heritage. There are cemeteries near Dutch Harbor, and Unalaska, and Adak, or what's left of Adak after the big quake hit.

"My great-grandfather lived through that one when he was a kid. A 9.2 struck right off the coast, just to the south, and half the island just sank into the Bering Sea. He had a sister, and they never did find her. She was presumed dead. Anyway, the quake hit, the town sank 50 feet, and the tsunami finished the job with the part of town that didn't quite sink. My great-grandfather survived because he'd been playing hooky from school and had been hiking, so he was on high ground. And his dad survived because he'd been at sea, on a fishing boat, in the Pacific. My grandmother used to tell me that the ground is always shaking as a reminder that nothing is permanent. We're only borrowing the ground on which we stand."

"The beaches where I grew up are made up of large rocks," he said. "There's no sand to speak of . . . well, at the Copper delta there's sand, but the beaches near Valdez and Cordova are polished rocks. I used to spend hours making forts and fiords. And I'd find mollusks, and leave them on the beach for the sea otters to find. It didn't take long for the seals to pick up on this, and pretty soon they were coming up to the house. My dad was so angry. It's illegal to feed wildlife. And the seals had ripped into the shed, or overturned one of the benches to get at the bait we kept there for fishing.

"In the springtime—well, when the sun returns, for that matter, you start hearing this low cry from the Sound, from Prince William Sound. And it's the trumpeting from humpback whales. They are the descendants of the whales that James T. Kirk brought forward in time to save Earth some 80 years ago."

"You can hear them, even if they're under water?" Tasha asked.

"You can. And you can see them. They'll be out there breaching, slapping the water with their fins. They stay there until the fall, and then they migrate to the Hawaiian Islands. But all summer, they stay there and feed on herring. And you can see Orcas. They're everywhere. Sometimes they'll travel alongside the ferries. Even though it's illegal to feed them, I think they still hope someone might drop something into the water."

"From a boat, you mean," she said.

"Usually a boat," Will replied. "It's a short enough ride. Not a bad ride, either. About 20 minutes unless the tide's active or the water is choppy. You get over being seasick very fast if you're riding on a boat every day. Although, I do remember you mentioning a certain trip you took to Alcatraz Island . . ."

"Oh, that one was memorable," she muttered.

When Tasha was graduated Starfleet Academy, she and several communications majors decided to make the necessary pilgrimage to Alcatraz near San Francisco. The abandoned jail held a great deal of historical lore and was a popular destination for tourists and Academy grads. The solidly constructed prison was crumbling by then, structurally unsound from age and having weathered its share of earthquakes.

Tasha had never been on an open boat in her life before taking the ferry to Alcatraz, and she caught quite a bit of crap from her friends for being so seasick. She'd spent both the initial and return trips with her head hung over the back railing, vomiting trails through San Francisco Bay.

She'd told Will about that incident sometime back, months ago during a similar conversation, and he'd laughed, as she'd expected he would.

"I don't imagine you'd do well with one of those ferry trips," Will said of the Prince William Sound ferries. "You'd need a nausea patch."

"Or maybe some ginger tea," Tasha said, grinning. The rain continued lashing the windows, running down the panes and casting street-lit, rivulet shadows across the walls in their bedroom. "It sounds beautiful, though, all those mountains."

"It is," Will replied, suddenly tired, intoxicated from memories of the incredible surroundings he'd grown up around, and had assumed existed everywhere else until he traveled elsewhere. "It's gorgeous, almost magical. It's home."


	13. Chapter 13

**Future's Past, Part 13**

* * *

**Aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_**, 2364**

Jean-Luc Picard's first impulse was relief, then confusion, and finally irritation.

"If five people already have vanished from this sector over the past 2 years, why is this the first that I've heard of it?" he said. "The Federation should have advised anyone passing through this sector of the potential danger."

"I do not know, sir," Data replied. "I believe that Com. Riker and Lt. Yar were, however, the latest. Starfleet has been unable to determine the fate of the officers who vanished from the _Cheyenne._ They were declared missing in action."

"No one just vanishes, Mr. Data," Picard said. "So, where did they _go_?"

"The one link I could find between all the disappearances is the presence of a holodeck on every ship that reported disappearances. Only 24 Starfleet vessels are equipped with holodeck technology. To date, the _Enterprise _has the most advanced holodeck program. Four ships have been affected thus far, and if this is indeed what happened to our colleagues, the _Enterprise _would be number five on that list."

"Data, is there any link between any of these programs."

"Perhaps, sir," Data replied. "All of the programs either were running, or in storage. And all were historical in nature."

"You said the programs were historical in nature," Picard said. "Lt. Kendall's program was as well. Is it possible that the officers could somehow be stranded in that sector?"

"Sir, I ran multiple diagnostics and found nothing," Geordi LaForge said. "However, one anomaly did surface from ship's records at about the time that both Com. Riker and Lt. Yar may have disappeared. A 2.5-second long decrease in ship's power was noted, from 100 percent efficiency at Warp 4 to 94 percent efficiency. This didn't impact ship's speed, so it wasn't perceptible initially. And the power did spike back up to 100 percent after 2.5 seconds at 94 percent.

"When I first saw this report, I did a full diagnostic of power efficiency and found no abnormalities," LaForge continued. "But something drained that power while we were at warp with our shields down. It's just theoretical, but it is possible."

"But since energy can't dissipate without a trace, then where did it go? Is there a link between these holodeck programs?"

"That's the best possibility, sir," LaForge said.

"Lt. LaForge, Commander Data, ready a probe to test this theory," Picard said. "Is there any way to install the same holodeck program in its memory, say, in the communications network of the probe?"

"Yes, sir!" they responded.

"I only hope it won't take a trip back in time to retrieve my senior staff," Picard said. Only later did he realize the prophetic tone of his words, uttered at the time in half-jest. He hoped his two officers were alive in any timeline.

* * *

**Swope Park Clinic in Kansas City, Missouri, May 28, 2008**

The community clinic's waiting room was packed with a cross-section of 21st century humanity. Though the facility had a 'no smoking' sign and no one was smoking inside, the stink of cigarettes hung in the air from the clothes of waiting people who did smoke. Many had left crushed cigarette butts on the sidewalk just outside the clinic's door.

Will Riker's 2-meter frame was squeezed into a wooden chair that had been well-used over the past two decades of the clinic's existence. Already, his seated legs had served as a bridge for a young boy who was crawling around on the floor. The boy's mother seemed oblivious. She was having an animated conversation over her cell phone, not caring that others present didn't care to listen to the gritty details of her probation hearing. Everyone else had other things on their minds.

Will and Tasha Yar, who was fidgeting in a chair beside him, were there for his test results. When he received a phone call that morning to report to the clinic immediately, there was no stopping her from accompanying him to the clinic, to hear whatever the nurse refused to tell him over the phone.

Two days earlier, Will had traveled to the free clinic to have his blood drawn. He went through the questions that Tasha answered the week before, except that she _knew_ she'd been exposed to the human immunodeficiency virus via a blood splatter to her face. He'd slept with multiple partners, and _didn't_ know what they had or didn't have. At the time, he hadn't thought it mattered. Her risk was known and far greater, so she'd been given a supply of antiretroviral medications that she was supposed to take for a month. But even Tasha couldn't tough out the incapacitating side-effects.

Will tried to think about anything other than being on the same drug regimen, and tried to look at anything except the middle-aged, stick-thin woman sitting across from him in the waiting room. She was wearing a mini-dress with nothing underneath it, and had been flashing him repeatedly. Embarrassed, Will had already elbow-jabbed Tasha once for being unable to suppress laughing at his discomfort, much as a sister would tease her brother about having a female admirer.

"You've got such a way about you," she whispered. "Attracting all these hot women . . ."

"And now I'm here at this place because of it," he whispered back out of the corner of his mouth.

"This place is our best option. Besides, you're going to love the AZT experience," she countered, again trying to inject humor into an already tense situation. Since the day they'd arrived in the 21st century, Tasha had begun displaying a cynical and often sick sense of humor that Will hadn't known her to possess when the was back on the _Enterprise_.

Even when her head was hanging over the side of the toilet, dry-heaving through the AZT side effects, she made smart-ass remarks. But she couldn't quell a rising fear about being exposed to a potentially lethal virus. Several days earlier, she'd tried to save a man who'd been shot outside Reconciliation. He'd coughed blood into her face and eyes. A paramedic who'd responded to the call had pulled Tasha aside and told her that the man was "HIV-positive". He'd transported the man before, and knew he was HIV positive.

The fatalistic part of her took hold; the part that anticipated tactics that no one wanted to think about, the part that made her such a good security chief. She learned more about the virus when she'd come into this same clinic only hours after the shooting. They'd drawn her blood, handed her pamphlets and a month's supply of medications.

She didn't say anything to the nurse about having been inoculated—in the future—against every known virus. She knew better than to say anything. But she did know that viruses mutated, and that HIV had multiple variants.

_So the vaccine I received could be ineffective against this,_ she'd told Will . . . when they'd finally begun talking again.

_That stupid fight, _Will thought._ How the hell did we let things get that bad, again . ._ .nearly three weeks ago, Tasha had stormed out of the apartment, fed up with needing to find someplace else to sleep whenever Will brought a date home. Will had taken some parting shots, also, that had been especially hurtful to her.

He'd finally gone to her workplace two days ago, and found her barfing in the back bathroom, with her boss begging Will to take her home. Tasha was too sick to argue, and Will wasn't in the position to refuse. He was just happy to find her alive, even though she felt like she was dying. She told him why she was sick, that she was taking a medication supposedly designed to keep her from contracting the virus she'd been exposed to.

* * *

Tasha never liked long waits.

She was restless at best, hyperactive at worst. She was somewhat entertained by watching Will trying to ignore being flashed by the woman sitting right across from him, but then the flasher was called into the clinic's back offices by a nurse with a clipboard. She could sense Will's relief that the woman had gone, but also could see how tense he was.

He was worried, so much so that his knuckles had turned white as they gripped the armrest, from nervous tension that he hadn't expressed any other way. He'd been stoic, especially after he answered his cell phone that morning and realized that the message to "please come in as soon as possible" was a bad thing. No medical facility kept their appointment calendars cleared for good news . . . not in this century, anyway.

Tasha even had tried to loosen him up at the bus stop while they were waiting for a ride to the clinic. She kept trying to get him to laugh, trying to return a favor. Several days ago Will had been there to support her when she'd lost all semblance of professional composure as illness, exhaustion and dread finally hit her. She was supposed to be the calloused protector. But that morning, she stopped caring about who she was supposed to be and allowed herself a rare purging of everything that had happened over the past several weeks—not just in front of her commanding officer, but _on_ her commanding officer.

"This is NOT how I want to go," she had said, after they'd sat on the nearby couch while she regained control of herself.

Will just sat next to her, and rubbed her back. "I don't want to go out like that, either."

She had nodded, and then leaned against him as his strong hand slipped around her opposite shoulder, pulling her close, again. She covered her face with her own hand, ashamed of her reaction. He knew that, but hadn't minced words about it.

"You're scared," he said, chancing an honest observation, hoping she wouldn't hate him for it.

"Yes, I am!" she admitted, nearly whispering. "If I can't punch at a virus, I don't know what else to do. Fighting is the only thing I know how to do, and I'm stuck where we wait and see what happens. And I'm scared for you, too."

As they sat together that morning, he had agreed to go get tested, himself, since he'd also put himself at risk with his lifestyle. Though the two of them had never slept with each other, Tasha had begun to wonder just how many women he'd been with since they'd been stranded in the 21st century. Playing the field had worsened his odds.

"We don't need protect ourselves where we're from," Will had remarked. "We just . . .well, we do what we do."

She shook her head against his shoulder. "I don't presume to know what it is that you do," she said. And really, she _didn't_ want to know. Will wasn't as philosophical. His thinking was geared more toward other things.

"Well," he had said. "I haven't been stopping in the middle of a good time to say, 'Wait! I need to put on a balloon!'"

Somewhat unexpectedly for Will, Tasha began laughing.

"Well, you're something," she'd finally said, as grateful for Will's humor as he was for her response to it.

Even without the test results, they knew more about what they were dealing with, they weren't going to discuss the situation. So they had talked about other things, about Alaska, about the softball season, about the weather, about anything else.

* * *

**In Kim Tobin's office, and the Swope Park Clinic in Kansas City, Missouri**

Both Will and Tasha were called back into the clinic's treatment area at the same time, which was unusual. Privacy laws ordinarily prohibited that. Even Will and Tasha knew enough to understand that something different was going on. Instead of being escorted into one of the cordoned off treatment areas, they were left seated in someone's small office.

The second shock came when the lab manager walked into that room. It was Gary's wife, Kim. She glanced at them, smiled politely, and shut the door to her office.

Tasha felt her heart rate double instantaneously. _Oh shit . . ._ she thought. Will's hand touched her arm. She glanced at him, and saw that his face had flushed bright red. She could only imagine what color her own face was.

"Thanks for coming in," she said, placing a file on her desk and sitting down to regard them. "I know this must be terribly uncomfortable for both of you, but I do have good news on several fronts. Bottom line, you're both fine. I'm just glad it was me who looked at your blood sample."

Will let out an audible sigh of relief.

"You've both been vaccinated against HIV," she said. "These titers are present, and they're indicative of exposure via vaccination. What is so interesting is that the first HIV vaccination won't be developed until the year 2023, but I don't think it will be released for public inoculation until 2025, if memory serves. Your specific titer probably could be traced to the all-inclusive, human viral series released in . . . what was it . . . 2350, I think?"

A giant grin began spreading across Will Riker's face.

"You're also. . ." he began.

"I knew there was something about both of you," she said, also smiling. "Gary knew there was something about both of you. We've been here for nine years. Now I wonder how many more of us are here."

"Both you and Gary are—," Tasha stammered.

"Yes, we're stuck here, too."

"Are you here deliberately?" Will asked.

"Oh God, no," Kim shook her head. "There are three from the _USS Cheyenne_. We were enroute to rendezvous with Deep Space Four to rotate crew and deliver supplies. Next thing we knew, we're on a riverbank in the middle of the night."

"Here in Kansas City?"

"No, it was within a loop of the Mississippi River, on the most western point of the state of Kentucky, just across the river from New Madrid, Missouri. Middle of the night, very frightening, but at least it was summertime. Gary actually is from rural Missouri, so he recognized some of the indigenous plants and was the first one to realize we were on Earth. We found a road, walked south, wound up someplace called Tiptonville, Tennessee, and from there . . . we just managed. We've done the best we can."

"You mentioned a third person," Tasha remarked.

"He moved to New Brunswick," Kim replied. "It's where he's from, originally . . .well, 300-some-odd years from now. After we realized there wouldn't be a rescue, we decided to stay out of history's way by fitting in as best we could. Gary didn't want to move anywhere near Joplin, but he'd always liked Kansas City, so that was where he wanted to go. I was born and raised on Luna, and aside from field trips to Earth, I didn't have much of a deep connection here, so I figured I'd stay with Gary. Long story short, we moved to Kansas City. And we've done OK."

"Something similar happened to us," Riker said. "Tasha and I were walking down a corridor, enroute to a personnel review, and then we found ourselves lying on the sidewalk in front of Union Station, also in the middle of the night and in the rain, a little more than a year ago."

"What ship are you from?"

"The _USS Enterprise_," Will replied.

Kim broke into a smile. "I didn't know they'd launched another _Enterprise_!"

"Only within the past year," Will replied.

"Kim," Tasha said, at first staring at the front of Kim's desk. "Does Gary know, yet?"

She paused for a minute. "Well, he suspects," Kim replied. "He's mentioned things, like your saying this was 2364. . ."

Tasha nodded. "Yeah, that was a big slip-up on my part."

"You probably had a mild concussion," Kim replied. "But he doesn't know that you're here. He doesn't know what I know."

"Are you going to tell him?"

"By law, I can't," Kim said. "But I know he's worried about you. He told me you're never sick. Oh, I almost forgot! You don't need to take that medication, anymore. And I know you'll be crushed by that—,"

"Not at all!" Tasha exclaimed, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

"So, I don't get to enjoy the AZT experience?" Will remarked.

"Sorry, but you don't," Kim replied. "I feel bad that Tasha had to deal with it for so many days."

"You know," Tasha said. "I'm relieved, and I can't help thinking about the people that I see everyday at the Rec who are HIV positive, and they'll never live to see this vaccine, or the people who are newly infected or haven't been infected yet."

"Tasha," Kim remarked. "I know it doesn't seem fair. But it isn't fair that we're here, either. I came to peace a long time ago that if immunities were my greatest advantage here, I'd take them. It may seem heartless, but that's just the way it is. It's not time yet for the vaccine. I know it, and you know it, too. You've got to let it go."

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, May 28, 2008, 0930 hours**

Will didn't think that Tasha's feet even touched the ground as they were leaving the clinic. It was raining softly outside, but they didn't really notice, at first. The bus stop was only 50 meters from the front door, and they had awhile to wait.

"You think he'll be at the bar this early?" Will finally said, breaking the silence. He knew that would be Tasha's next stop. She wouldn't want to just go back to the apartment and sit still after hearing the news she'd just heard.

"On a Wednesday, yes," Tasha replied, combing her rain-dampened hair off her face with her fingers. _How'd he know that's where I wanted to stop, next?_ "He'll be taking deliveries. He's there."

"May I go with you?"

She looked at him. "Would you?"

"Absolutely," he replied. "Always."

They stood together, stealing glances at each other, thinking the same thing: _We're stuck here. If Gary and Kim have been here for the past nine years, unable to escape, unable to alert anyone to where they were, we're stuck here, too. _

* * *

**43rd Place, 1015 hours**

Gary was waiting for them as they plodded up the 43rd Street hill from the nearest bus stop near JC Nichols Park, and it quickly became obvious that he knew everything. He stepped out the front door, and saluted.

"Being that you both probably outrank me in the world we all came from, I figured I'd start this out right," he said, relaxing to the 'at ease' status that, frankly, would have been fine with Will from the beginning. "Kim did tell me, please don't sue her. She's so excited she can't stand it. You both OK?"

"We're great, right about now," Will said, extending his hand toward Gary, who shook it enthusiastically.

"And you," Gary said, nodding toward Tasha as a smile broke through her face, finally. "You come here for a second," and he pulled her into a bear hug. "I knew there was something about you! Are you doing better?"

"Yeah," she replied, blinking away tears that had sprung to her eyes.

"Hey, come on," Gary said. "It's a celebration, right?"

"It absolutely is," Will replied.

"Come on in," Gary nodded toward the inside of the bar. "I have one more delivery and I don't open for two hours."

"—hardest part was when we'd been here about six months, and all three of us were butting heads big time," Gary said. Will and Tasha sat at the bar, sipping coffee while Gary stood, mostly because sitting on those bar stools hurt his back.

"We were seriously messed up," Gary continued. "Nothing made sense. We're Starfleet officers—medical and petty officers, but still, come on! We'd made it so far and were on a good ship, had never really met each other. But here we were bussing tables and cleaning toilets and asking each other the same questions. Why are we here? Are we stuck here? I'd just gotten divorced before I got assigned to the _Cheyenne_, Kim had been dating some science officer, and Gavin was a kid, just joined up. He had his whole career ahead of him.

"I've got to hand it to the two of you...you two stuck together," Gary added. "We let it get to us. We were living in the same apartment, but then Gavin left, and he moved up to New Brunswick. He figured if he was stuck here, he might as well be someplace familiar to him. Kim and I had a knock-down-drag-out and she left, moved in with a co-worker from St. Teresa's. I don't think she and I even spoke for another six months, and then we ran into each other right here at 43rd. I'd gotten my bartender's license and hired on here, and she came in with some loser she'd met at work, and he ditched her. I gave her a ride to her place, and we started talking again."

"And now you're married," Tasha remarked.

"Yeah, now we're married," Gary said. "For the right reasons."

"Any thoughts about what you'll do during World War III?" Will said. "It's not that far away, from what I remember."

"We've got a little time before things really start falling apart," Gary replied. "We're mostly just making a living. Gavin is living near St. John's, and he'll probably be all right. What really is horrible is that with Homeland Security in the United States, we can't travel to visit him, and he can't travel to visit here. We can't take that risk."

"Kim told us that you suspected us, or suspected me," Tasha asked. "What was it?"

"Uh, yeah, there were little things, especially at first when you began working here. I recognized your boots right off the bat, but then thought it was a coincidence. I couldn't quite place your accent. And then when you said you were from San Fran but you didn't know anything about the Marina District, but you knew all about the Plateau, I figured something was up. The Plateau was filled in the late 21st century, as I remember. And then there was that remark you made when I was explaining the Civil War, when you thought it was 500 hundred years ago—"

"I remember that!" Tasha exclaimed.

"So, where are you really from?" Will asked.

"I actually was born in Joplin," he said. "That's why we stayed in this area, but I sure didn't want to be living there, these days. Gavin wanted to move closer to his home, so he lives in New Brunswick, just outside St. John. He's a ferry captain and also does tours in the Bay of Fundy, so he moved there and then he met a woman, and now they've got a kid, which doesn't seem possible because Gavin's just a kid, himself."

"Does she know where he's really from?"

"I don't know," Gary replied. "She hasn't kicked him out, yet. So, where are you two really from?"

"I'm from Alaska, and she's from Turkana IV," Will replied.

"I don't know Turkana," Gary remarked.

Tasha shrugged. "Trust me, it's nowhere special," she remarked. "My family is from the Ukraine."

* * *

**June, 2008**

Both couples soon forged a close friendship, though their realities were quite different. Gary and Kim had two daughters, Chandler, age 6 and Piper, who just turned 3. Most of their off-work time was spent with their children. They lived on "the Kansas side" of the metropolitan area, where schools were much more stable than they were on the "Missouri side".

"I've always wondered whether the KCMO school district and the city are in the kit together, since so many people who work in Missouri live in Kansas solely because KCMO has such a screwed up school district," Gary observed to Tasha one day while he was hanging clean wine glasses back up behind the bar. "One percent of my entire salary goes to the city because I live out of the area so my girls can go to a decent, public school."

At the urging of Gary and Kim, Will and Tasha accompanied them to a concert in Swope Park later that summer. They left the kids with a babysitter, a college-bound teenager who lived several doors down their street. Will and Tasha had never been to a large concert, before—not even in the 24th century. The music was loud to Will, but Tasha seemed to like it, and she'd accompanied him to so many jazz shows that he figured he owed her. He did enjoy the band's percussion set, and then realized that he was uncharacteristically hungry midway through the concert.

Will, whose disgust at concession stand rip-off prices was well known to anyone who knew him, wound up dropping cash twice for munchies at Starlight. It was obvious to Tasha what was going on, and she laughed outright at him.

"What's so funny?" he finally said.

"You!" she said. "You're stoned, Will!"

"Stoned?" he replied. "That's what this is?"

"Yes, that's what it is," she said. "You've never been stoned, before?"

"And you have?"

She started laughing. "Come on! You know how I grew up."

"But we aren't smoking anything!"

"We don't need to," she said. "Smell this place. People have been lighting up all around us. They're breathing out, we're breathing in. That's all it takes."

"Amazing experiences we're having," Will said. "I thought they checked for contraband."

Tasha shot him a playful, cynical look, then shouted in his ear over the music. "They weren't checking shoes or underwear! Gary told me this was going to happen. Someone always lights up, and half the time they don't do anything about it because it brings more concession sales!"

He stared at her. "That's highway robbery!"

"What are we going to do about it?" she said. "I'm enjoying myself."

For the band's curtain call, the lead vocalist returned to the stage wearing something familiar; a blue t-shirt with a Jayhawk on the front, commemorating the University of Kansas' basketball championship win that spring. The biased crowd at Starlight Theatre came apart with screaming cheers.

For the first time, Will and Tasha actually felt comfortable, and it wasn't just because they'd inhaled the air around them. They understood what was happening. They understood the cultural nuances. They could just enjoy the moments, and not be befuddled. It didn't need to be explained to them. They had become part of the culture, and they were enjoying it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Future's Past, Part 14**

* * *

**Aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_**, 2364**

Captain Jean-Luc Picard and Lt. Com. Data were deep in discussion, literally brainstorming about what could have happened not only to two members of the senior staff, but also to three members of another crew nearly two years earlier.

"Three others, sir, from aboard a Federation research vessel called the _USS Cheyenne_," Data said. "The ship was passing through this very quadrant exactly two years, three months, four days—,"

"Mr. Data," Picard interrupted, not really interested in how many minutes and seconds had passed. He was more interested historical moments that may have been depicted on the _Cheyenne_'s simulation program. "Were any simulation programs running at that time?"

"Yes, sir," Data replied. "According to the _Cheyenne_'s log, a simulation program depicting an historic seismic event had been in operation within four hours of the disappearance of the three crew members."

"Was this event witnessed?"

"Yes, sir, by a medical worker. The three crew members who vanished apparently were either passing by each other in the corridor and then simply vanished, being pulled slightly toward the center of the ship, at the same level as the geo simulation lab, which was beyond the nearest bulkhead.

"There was an extensive investigation, and the event was captured on ship's security logs," Data continued. "In comparing both occurrences, it was noted that there were similar power drains. This event was witnessed, however, and despite the extensive search and scientific analysis of the area, no trace of any of the officers was ever found. They remain missing in action. Here is the event synopsis, sir."

Picard glanced at the bios of each officer that went missing from the _Cheyenne_: All human, all from different departments, walking though the wrong corridor at the wrong time: Lt. Kimothy Chandler, age 29 at the time of the incident, a registered nurse assigned to the _Cheyenne_'s sickbay; Petty Officer Gary Tobin, age 38, a nutrition specialist assigned to the ship's mess, and Ensign Gavin Machias, age 19, assigned to logistics.

He speed-read down the synopsis, and then asked, "It doesn't say here what the simulation scenario was," Picard said.

"There were multiple seismic events depicted in these simulations," Data said. "The incidents began between December 16 of 1811 and January 23, 1812, when a series of severe earthquakes occurred in North America at a seismically active area known today as the New Madrid Fault. They continue even today, but the last major shift was in 2021, sir."

"Yes, I remember reading about that in EarthCiv," Picard said. "The quakes were so severe that even the great Mississippi River flowed backward for a time."

"Yes, sir," Data said. "Those particular quakes often are simulated for students of geology, and are part of every geologic program aboard every Federation ship, including this one, sir. The _Cheyenne_ had loaded the simulation as a review for geologists about to research similar events occurring on Omicron VIII. It is where the vessel was heading when the crew disappearance took place."

"Mr. Data, is it possible that all five lost crew members, including our own, are alive?"

"It is possible, sir."

"How?"

"Sir, there is no record of energy absorption in any area of either the _Enterprise_ or the _Cheyenne._ Since energy cannot dissipate without a signature, it must have gone somewhere."

"Yes . . ."

"It is possible that with the energy emitted, and with solar flare activity in this sector, that the officers may have been part of a time warp, to those eras time-stamped in the simulations."

"The year 1811, and whatever Lt. Kendall had programmed into his simulations."

"Sir, there are 416 different time-stamps in both programs, 310 of which depict when the New Madrid fault started to become seismically active again near the turn of the 21st century, building up to its next major seismic shift in 2021."

"And those were the simulations linked to the _Cheyenne_ crew," Picard said. "So they could be linked to any of these events, from 1811 to 2021. What about the crew of the _Enterprise_?"

"I believe a similar occurrence happened to Com. Riker and Lt. Yar, only they were time warped to one of Lt. Kendall's simulations."

"Which one?"

"I do not know, sir," Data replied. "Of the 106 simulation programs spanning an 81-year period, 42 were loaded into the Holodeck."

* * *

**Camp Reconciliation, 40 miles southeast of Kansas City, Missouri, mid July, 2008**

For Natasha Yar, the near-constant, high-pitched drone of cicadas was more deafening than automobile traffic. But trilling insects in the summertime wasn't an overly disturbing sound, once she got used to it.

A regular volunteer at Reconciliation community shelter and food service, Tasha had wanted to travel with the shelter's annual, weeklong camping retreat to a parcel of land it subletted in rural Missouri, nearly an hour away from the Rec's base in the urban blight that was Midtown, Kansas City, Missouri.

The first week of camp was held primarily for urban kids, to give them a chance to experience rural life. Tasha had accompanied one group of children on a Tuesday, serving as their no-nonsense chaperone who had plenty to learn, herself. She'd never been out there, before, but had enjoyed it, nonetheless. She'd never seen so many birds, and had never heard so many insects communicating day and night.

She'd had to return to the city for work, but planned to return to the campsite on Saturday. She asked Will if he'd like to come along. _I think you'd have fun,_ she'd told him.

_I'm supposed to work Saturday night,_ he'd responded. _Big tips._

_You mean, big tits, Will,_ she'd replied, raising her eyebrows at his hidden meaning. They knew each other too well, by then. _I know what kind of crowd you get on Saturday nights, the lay-you-and-leave-you crowd. Hey, it's up to you. I'm leaving at 0800 to catch a bus, and then from there I'll be riding out on the van to the campsite. You are welcome to join us; I'll be there all night. So, if you've got a hot date planned, I won't be back until around 1100 Sunday morning, so you won't need to run her out or find another block of wood to hang on the doorknob. I've got my cell phone._

Will was intrigued enough by having a new experience over another piece of ass that he took her up on the offer, and joined her on the trip. So they rode out to the campsite, crammed in a van with 10 other people, half of whom had never been out of urban Midtown in their lives.

To have that new experience, he did something he'd never done, before. He called in sick to work, for the first time ever.

* * *

**Camp Reconciliation, July 19, 2008**

"Don't scratch them! They'll get infected," Tasha remarked, dabbing hydrocortisone cream onto dozens of insect bites on Will's face and neck. "These are really bad! Did you rub yourself down with sugar, or what?"

"Guess I'm just delicious," Will remarked, somewhat embarrassed that she was mothering him, but nonetheless grateful. He didn't care what she was putting on him: It was working. He no longer felt like he needed to scratch his skin off.

"You must be," she remarked, dabbing anti-itch cream from the Rec's first aid kit onto the multiple bug bites across his face and neck. "Hold still—,"

They had arrived that morning, the last kilometers of travel to the campsite traversed on gravel roads. Huge clouds of dust had kicked up in their wake, and a layer of fine, tan-tinted dust now coated the back of the van. One of the 100 campers wrote "wash me" on the back window in that dust, which Tasha had found somewhat funny while she was digging through the medical kit that was stored in the back of the van.

She had watched Will squirm through a campfire discussion about religion and politics, but she knew he wasn't wiggling because he was uncomfortable with the subject. He had been eaten alive by mosquitoes throughout the afternoon, and now he was trying not to scratch the bites. She found the first aid kit and returned to his side to bring him some relief.

"You don't look like you were bitten at all," he remarked with some irritation.

"Oh, I was," she replied, squeezing more medicine from the tube and dabbing it across each bite. There were so many she almost didn't know where to start. "I'm just not scratching them. They're mostly on my arms," she replied, then grabbed his left wrist as he reached to scratch the back of his neck. "Stop!"

"This is horrible," Will said. "I must have lost half a liter of blood out here."

"We'll bring insect repellant, next time," she said.

"I'm probably going to get malaria . . ."

"You're not going to get malaria!" she replied, a slight smile crossing her face.

"And I don't even want to know what's living in my hair, by now."

"That's a lovely thought."

The campsite had running water, outdoor bathrooms, multiple picnic tables and fire pits. Personnel with the Rec had set up several, large tents and had mowed an adjacent field for softball, volleyball and football matches throughout the week.

A nearby pond gave campers an opportunity to fish, and Will Riker, who loved to fish but hadn't done it since he was a kid, was a good mentor to youngsters who had never held a fishing pole, let alone reeled in a catch. They had purchased worms at a bait shop on the way to the campsite, and now Will was splitting worms into quarters, teaching youngsters how to bait hooks, plop the line into the water and . . . how to be patient.

The mosquito-laden water around the pond also made Will a prime target, and now he was paying for it. The kids caught and released numerous perch and bluegill, and one of them even hooked a small bass.

But Will was bitten in other ways, both by the mosquitoes and later by the barbecue bug.

He'd been drawn into realm of the hard-core, Kansas City barbecue aficionados, where dry-rub preparation meant everything and the competition was steep at any event, professional or not. Each cook inwardly competed against anyone else who slapped meat onto the grill. The Rec had hauled out a large, barbecue smoker, and various cooks were all in the midst of a mini cookoffs that lasted all week.

Will knew there was no way he could compete with these folks. Several of them had prepped a brisket early that morning with a home-concocted dry rub, and now it was roasting in a large smoker set up nearby. When he wasn't teaching children how to fish in the nearby pond, he was hovering over the barbecue grill, learning secrets from the real pros.

* * *

**July 19, 2008, 2330 hours**

Will and Tasha were used to staying up later than others who were camping that night. Their work hours often lasted into the wee hours of the night, so they still weren't tired even after everyone else crawled into their respective tents by 11 p.m.

They both reclined side-by-side on the old, Adirondack chairs that had been left at the campsite decades ago, but still lasted there because they'd been made of teak wood. The campsite was far enough away from the bright lights of Kansas City that both Starfleet officers were able to look up and see stars they hadn't been able to view in more than a year.

"They look so different," Tasha remarked.

"I can't even recognize some of them," Will added. "And they do look different...I used to lie awake for hours in Alaska, outside with a sleeping bag. In the winter months, the sun sets at around 4 in the afternoon. I'd come home from school, grab some blankets and my sleeping bag, and just be outside with the deck lights off, and just look at the stars. The angle is different, but most of these stars are the same."

"Didn't that one go nova about 10 years ago?" she said, nodding toward the sky and whispering in case other campers heard her. "I mean, 300-some-odd years from—you know what I mean. The one about 90 degrees from Sirius."

"I think it did!" he said. "You're right. What was it called?"

"I don't remember."

"But it definitely isn't there, anymore," he remarked.

"It's there, now."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah," she replied, smiling.

"Of all the places you've been on Earth, what's your favorite?" Will asked.

"MY favorite?" Tasha replied. "Well, I don't know what it's like in this century, but one of my favorite places on Earth is a city called Ivano-Frankovsk, in the Ukraine. My foster family said that my own family originally was from that region, that they'd lived in that city off and on for more than 500 years, so one day we went and visited. It's unique, kind of a blend of every culture that's either conquered the area or been absorbed into it. I liked it immediately. People are friendly without being ingratiating. I think I've been back probably 5 times, just to visit."

"In Ivano-Frankovsk."

"This is going to sound ridiculous, but part of me doesn't miss being out there in space," she remarked. "I miss the _Enterprise_, and the traveling and the camaraderie aboard the ship. They're my family."

"I didn't know that," Will said after a few seconds.

"Hmm?"

"I didn't know you thought of us as your family."

"Well, I do," she replied. "I was never as close to my foster family as I am to the _Enterprise_ crew."

She was glad she'd tied a light jacket around her waist when she came out here. Now she wore it snugly around her, keeping her warm against the 60-degree, humid air.

"Part of me doesn't miss being out in space, either," Will admitted.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"I'd always figured you'd spend the rest of your life in space," she said.

"I just work in space," he replied. "My home is here. When I retire from Starfleet, I'm going back to Alaska. What about you, what'll you do after you retire?"

"I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."

"What would you like to be doing?"

Tasha was silent for a few seconds before replying. "What I want to do and what's more likely to happen are totally different things," she finally said.

"Ever thought about being a mom?" he asked.

She glanced sideways at him. "That came out of left field," she remarked after a few seconds.

He smiled at her 21st century reference. "Not if you'd seen yourself with these kids, today," he replied.

"Yeah, I've thought about it," she stammered. "But I don't think I'd be a good mother."

"I don't believe that for a second," he replied. "You'd be a great mother."

"I didn't do a very good job raising my sister."

"You were what, six years old?" he said. "You were a kid, yourself. You did the best anyone could have done."

She shrugged. "I don't know if I'd want to raise a child in this timeframe, anyway. There's too much coming up on us."

"Would you still believe that, if you didn't already know that?"

She diverted the focus. "How about you? Do you want kids?"

"I probably shouldn't have asked you that question, earlier," he said. "I feel the same way about my parenting abilities."

"And I have the same response," she replied. "You'd be a great dad. I watched you teaching those kids how to fish."

"That's a nice fishing pond," he said. "Lots of fish . . . lots of mosquitos. . ."

"I think you probably donated half a liter of blood to those mosquitoes," she replied.

"It was a grudging donation, trust me," he said. "Still, I'm glad I came out here."

"I'm glad you did, too."

* * *

They remained silent for several minutes, and after awhile Will glanced at her to see if she'd fallen asleep. But she hadn't. She was wide awake, deep in thought, looking up.

"Will, do you remember your mother?"

He drew a deep breath. "Uh, I don't remember what she looked like, but I remember her presence, I guess," he replied. "And I remember looking for her around the house and not being able to find her."

"Do you remember the car accident?"

"I remember . . . glass striking the left side of my face," Will replied, closing his eyes. "I remember not being able to breathe. I remember being in a yellow room, and I remember looking for my mother's easy chair, and her quilts, all the little knick-knacks that I used to knock over. They were just gone. Turns out my father had them put into storage. He cleaned out everything that reminded him of her. As far as I know, it's still in a storage locker just outside of Anchorage."

He stopped and looked over at her. "Why did you ask?" he said.

She stared at the sky, shaking her head slightly. "I'd always wondered if it was just my bad memory, that I don't remember my father," she said. "He died when I was almost the same age as you were when you lost your mom, a little younger. But I have no memory of him, at all, and I'd always regretted that I didn't remember him. I just . . . wondered if I was supposed to have remembered from when I was that little."

"I don't think humans are supposed to remember much before we turn three, or so," he said. "But Deanna told me once that when we're very young, what we recall are imprints. Stressful events can trigger those. That's probably why I remember the accident, but I don't remember specifics about my mother. I have a few photos and holos of her."

"My foster dad gave me some photos of my father," she remarked. "He kept some pictures from when they were working together, before the colony fell apart. I don't think I looked like my father, at all, but Rustam insists that I have his temper. My brother looked like him, though."

"You never have told me about your brother," he said.

"Alek was great, a great big brother. He had my back," she said. "If it weren't for him, none of us would have made it. He figured out what was happening, he kept us safe, he taught me how to survive. There is no way that I'd have lived beyond the age of 5 if it weren't for Alek. He was so much tougher than I am."

"You know, when you first told me what had happened to him, I was struck by how nonchalant you were about it," Will remarked.

"When you lose a sibling, you never stop missing them," she said. "You just aren't thinking about it all the time. You shut your mind to it so it doesn't drive you crazy. You have to. It's a survival instinct. If you allow yourself to get upset about anything while you're in a threatening environment, it can blind you to other threats that are out there. You lose your defenses when you let your defenses down. He taught me that."

"What about your sister?"

"She joined a cadre," Tasha said, and her voice grew intense, though she kept its volume low so no one but Will could hear her. "She was initiated into the cadre by murdering one of the people who'd given us shelter after Alek was killed. Ishara cut her throat, just like that, when she was probably 9 or 10, and bragged about it to anyone who would listen. She tried to have me murdered twice, and were it not for the protection I received where I was, um, working, she might have succeeded. She is one of the most vicious human beings I've ever known. I don't consider her a member of my family."

"But I think about Alek a lot. I wonder all that he could have done if he'd survived. And my mother, and my grandmother, and so many cousins," a sad smile broke through her face. "I don't even know how many cousins I had. Aunts, uncles...I came from a large family, but as far as I know, I'm the only one who made it out. I know I didn't see anyone else in my family in the caverns, so they probably all died in the church or they were killed by the nukes, or shot...I don't know. I think everyone else died in the war or afterward."

* * *

"So, who do you miss on the _Enterprise_?"

"Oh, I miss a lot of people," she replied, yawning. "Some people more than others . . ."

"Especially Mr. Data . . ."

"Will!" she said, but an embarrassed smile broke across her face.

"Maybe that wasn't a one-time thing!" he said.

"It absolutely was!" she replied. "All right, I don't want this to sound too much like I'm trying to fix you up, but—,"

"Oh great, here it comes . . ."

"Yes, it is!" she said. "I hope when we get back to the _Enterprise_, that you and Deanna get back together."

"Wouldn't be appropriate."

"Why not?"

"That chain of command thing."

"You said it yourself, that it happens all the time," she remarked. "And really, it's written all over her face, and occasionally, it's written on yours."

"No it's not," he said. "We ended our romantic relationship years ago."

"Did you?"

"Yes, we did!"

"From an outsider's perspective, I don't think you were done," she said. "I don't know why it ended, and I don't want to know. But I just know that you're not done. And I know that I'm not the only one who sees it. You about came unglued when that wedding party showed up."

"Deanna _really_ came unglued."

"Who could blame her?" Tasha remarked. "I couldn't imagine. Anyway, when we get back—,"

"If we get back," he said.

"When," she countered. "I guarantee you that it's crossed her mind."

"Did she say anything about it—?"

"And it's crossed your mind, too," she said.

"You're right about that," he admitted. "It has."

"That's why you've had so many one-night stands," she said. "You and Deanna weren't finished. You just postponed things, so now you're hooking up with other women so you can fill in for her until you're ready to settle down."

He stared at her, and then looked away.

"Am I right?"

_She shoots, she scores,_ he thought.

"Maybe," he finally said.

* * *

**July 20, 2008, 0330 hours**

Tasha wasn't used to sleeping in a bag. The sensation of waking up with her feet relatively restrained was enough to send her into an impulsive, full-body-jerk wake-up. She sat straight up, not making a sound. It was pitch black, humid as hell. Her brother was walking away from her in the darkness, looking something for them to eat. Grimy hands were touching her. She was vomiting. She hurt . . . and it was too quiet. _It's never quiet, why is it quiet? Something's wrong..._

She looked up through the mesh peak of the tent, agitated inside but forcing calm over her body. _I'm on Earth._ . . she glanced around, then realized where she was, in a small tent at Camp Reconciliation. Will Riker stirring amidst his slumber atop an improvised bed of egg-crate foam and a set of blankets a couple of feet away from her. Sweltering in the humidity, he'd shoved his sheets aside so he could sleep somewhat comfortably.

_OK, it's OK . . ._ Tasha trembled as adrenaline reached her extremities, and beads of sweat began dribbling down her face and neck not from the heat and humidity of a July night, but from the sheer terror of what had happened again in her mind. She pulled her knees up to her chest and exhaled as quietly as possible.

_When is this going to stop? It's supposed to stop after awhile, isn't it? I'm so sick of this..._

"Tash?" Will was awake. "You all right?" he whispered.

"Yeah," she found herself saying aloud, also whispering so other campers in nearby tents wouldn't overhear. "Just trying to wake up."

"It's the middle of the night," Will replied. "You don't need to wake up, yet."

"Yes, I do," she said, then inwardly cringed that she'd responded aloud at all. Hoping he'd fall back asleep, she lay back down, even though she still was trembling from what she'd relived in her sleep.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She shook her head. _Nothing,_ she thought. _Just drop it._

She curled onto her side, with her back him so he wouldn't see the involuntary tears that had begun meandering down her face. _Not good,_ she thought. _He doesn't need this bullshit, this is my bullshit to deal with._

"Just tell me," he pressed.

"I don't want to talk about it," she finally responded, whispering fiercely but forcing calm over her voice. That didn't fool Will for a second. He reached toward her, his hand touching her shoulder as she lay facing away from him. She didn't shrug him away, but instead rolled over onto her stomach, wrapped her arms around her pillow and buried her face against it.

Normally separated by the space between their respective beds in their apartment, they now lay side-by-side in the small tent. It hadn't seemed like a big deal to either of them, and to others at the Rec, it seemed like no big deal at all. Will Riggs and Natasha Harris lived together, why shouldn't they be sharing a 2-man tent? Will and Tasha themselves had just shrugged off the sleeping arrangement, hadn't even discussed with each other. It hadn't seemed like a big deal.

Now, Tasha inwardly cursed the close proximity because her activity woke Will up and alerted him that she'd had another nightmare, which was embarrassing. But Will was grateful that the physical distance was gone. He rolled onto his stomach next to her, and again draped his arm over her upper back, occasionally rubbing her opposite shoulder to let her know he was still there. He took some comfort that she didn't draw away from his embrace, hadn't shrugged him off or bolted out of the tent. He would have sworn that she scooted closer to him, though she would have denied it.

It almost would have been easier for him if she had done what others would have done, moved completely into his arms and simply sobbed all over him. But loud blubbering wasn't her style. She'd learned long ago how to cry her eyes out without making a sound so no one would know about it.

_I know you don't want to be pitied, you don't want to talk about it,_ Will thought, even as he drifted back off to sleep with his arm draped over her shoulders. _But at least I can be here for you. _

* * *

**July 20, 0730 hours**

"Tasha sleeping in?" LaDonna asked, as she piled four pounds worth of bacon onto three, cast-iron skillets situated over a huge, campfire grille. She'd been up at dawn to rekindle the fire and begin breakfast. "Ain't like her to slack off."

"She's exhausted," Will replied, yawning.

"You want coffee? I got instant over there," she added. "But we ain't got any of that yuppie soy expresso latte with caramel sparkles or whatever y'all pay $5 a pop for."

"Just black is fine for me."

"How're them bug bites?" she asked.

"They're better than they were," he replied.

"You about tore your skin off, scratching at 'em like that," LaDonna remarked. "Like you was a meth addict on a bad hit."

"That ointment did wonders," Will said. "I wouldn't have slept well without it."

"Y'all was up yapping half the night, anyway," she said, shooting him a knowing look.

Will nodded, nonchalant. "Tasha and I do that from time to time."

"She all right?"

"Yeah, she just goes and goes until she falls over, you know?"

LaDonna smiled. "Yeah, I know," she said. "When y'all first came in The Rec, I thought she's just another do-gooder, you know, wanting to get her name out there. But the more I know her, the more I know she ain't that far removed, you know? She's seen too much, knows how too much happens. Last thing she wants is for her name to be anywhere."

Will nodded.

"What about you?" LaDonna asked. "You seem educated. What's up with you being where you're at?"

He shrugged. "We just got sidetracked."

"From what?"

"From that galaxy far, far away," Will replied, quoting a line he'd heard from someone at his work, but not really having any idea what he was quoting. Probably from a song he'd never heard or a movie he'd never seen. It just sounded like a good but semi-true statement.

She couldn't say he was lying. But LaDonna took it as anyone in Kansas City would have taken it, as a literal reference to a science-fiction fantasy world.

LaDonna laughed, anyway. "You're a space cadet," she said, laughing. "You both are space cadets, gonna go to Mars someday. Oh my Lord!"

Will couldn't help but smile. He'd already been to Mars several times.


	15. Chapter 15

**Future's Past, Part 15**

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, late July, 2008, 0800 hours**

July in the North American Midwest typically was scorching hot. Early mornings usually were the only hospitable daylight for joggers, so both Will and Tasha often took advantage of those hours for walks along Nichols Park and Brush Creek. But by the time they'd nearly finished their typical, cool-down walk, Will had sweat through the t-shirt he wore.

"I wonder if it was a portal of some kind," Tasha Yar said, seemingly out of the blue.

"Huh?" Will Riker replied.

"A one-way portal," she said. "When we landed here in the rain, at Union Station, you know?"

"Who knows," he replied. He hadn't even been thinking about it. Usually their walking talks revolved around other, more immediate, day-to-day issues. "You've been back to Union Station, I've probably been back there 20 times. I know that Gary and Kim have been back to where they landed in—where was it—southeast Missouri? None of us have found anything."

"I was just thinking that if there were two portals, there might be more."

"Probably, there are," he replied. "What brought this up?"

"Ever thought about trying to contact others who might be here?"

"Yeah, I have," Will replied. "But we risk exposing ourselves and winding up in one of those psychiatric hospitals we learned about in EarthCiv. But I've thought about it, yeah."

"Gary was talking about it, yesterday," she said. "He said they put a classified ad in the newspaper with their real names, ship name, Stardate and phone number, and then they got a bunch of calls from people who were . . . just crazy."

"But they got calls?"

"Yeah, but they were from people who weren't playing with a full deck, you know what I mean?" she remarked. "They didn't know a Stardate from Starbuck's. Gary said they didn't hear from anyone who had any clue about anything."

They stood still for a minute, stopped by a red light across Brookside Boulevard. Traffic was heavy enough that they didn't dare cross against the light. So they stood and waited with another, more serious athlete, someone jogging in place with his iPod earphones planted securely within each ear.

Cars rushed through the intersection, backwashing humid, warm air onto the people waiting on the street corner. Will wanted nothing more than to sit down with his feet in the fountain at the south end of Nichols Park.

"Do you ever think about what you'll do if we end up staying here?" Will said. "If we're stuck here for good, I mean."

"It's crossed my mind, yes," Tasha said.

"So, if we're here for good, any thoughts?"

"About what?"

"You know..."

"Oh, probably I'd teach martial arts, maybe, or maybe something where I'm outside more. I don't know, I hadn't really thought that far ahead," she said. "Something where I'd be more fulfilled than I am with waiting tables. What about you?"

"I'd thought about culinary school, maybe business school."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Sounds a little offbeat, but I grew up cooking, always been interested in learning more."

"I think you'd do well with that."

"I've looked into it. Picked up a flyer the other day at the library. I don't know how I'd afford it without financial aid. At least they don't delineate out-of-state tuition."

"I'd help," she said.

"Really?" Will said, as the light turned green and they started crossing the street. "You'd help put me through school?"

"Absolutely," she replied. "You're already a good cook. I don't know what I'd have eaten, otherwise."

"You've got a point."

"At least, now I know how to cook an egg," she said. "And I haven't had to eat out of the garbage in a long time."

"Thank goodness about that," Will said. "It's already hot enough out here that we could probably fry an egg on the pavement. Want to put your feet in the water?"

"Sure," she replied.

* * *

They veered off the sidewalk toward the JC Nichols Fountain, where water shot inward toward horse sculptures in the center. Smaller sculptures of children and dolphins played around the fountain's periphery.

Will and Tasha took off their shoes and socks, and sat on the edge of the fountain, dangling their feet into the cool water as mist from the fountain cooled them off.

"If we do get back, I'll miss these fountains," Tasha said.

"I won't miss these summers," Will replied. "It's already too hot out here and it's only 9 in the morning."

She kicked some water across his legs. "That help?" she said, grinning.

"A little," he replied, splashing back toward her, and then he stood up, standing up in the knee-deep water in the fountain. He turned to face her with a wry expression. "Actually, you know what I've always wanted to do in this fountain?"

She eyed him warily, but smiled and shook her head. "You've got a one-track mind, Will."

He shot her a look, then held his arms out, and fell backward into the water, sending a splash wave backward toward the equestrian statues nearby.

Her mouth fell open in surprise as he sat up on the bottom of the fountain, the water sloshing around his shoulders, dripping wet and shaking water out of his hair.

"I've always wanted to do that, in this fountain, on a day like this," he said.

Tasha glanced around at the mixed responses around them. There were around 20 other people nearby, and some were laughing, others disdainful. "I can't believe you just did that!" she said, smiling with amusement.

"I dare you," Will said.

"We'll get arrested!" she replied, always wary of hacking off the local authorities.

"No we won't," he said. "You aren't even wearing a white shirt. You'll be fine."

She stared at him, but even then she was unable to suppress a smile.

"Oh, come on!"

"All right," she said, standing and turning to take the plunge beside him. She closed her eyes as she hit the water, then sat up on the bottom of the fountain next to him. The water came up nearly to her shoulders. She wiped water from her eyes, but was already laughing.

"You feel good?" Will said.

"Yeah, I feel good!"

But Tasha's ever-present suspicion of being busted ultimately got the better of her, and she insisted they climb out of the fountain within a few more seconds and halfheartedly wrung out their drenched clothing, then carried their shoes as they walked through the grass across the entire length of the park. By then, the sidewalk had gotten too hot to walk across without shoes, but the grass was comfortably warm.

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, early August, 2008, 0400 hours**

After being jarred awake—again—by Tasha waking in a cold sweat, Will knew he had to act: Not only as a roommate who wanted to sleep or a commanding officer who was tired of her denials, but mostly as a friend who cared.

By the time she re-emerged from the bathroom, he was standing up, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. He'd put on a t-shirt and his jogging shorts, in case she bolted from the apartment when he confronted her. But she simply skirted past him.

"Tasha . . ," he began, turning to face her as she crawled back onto her bed.

"I'm really tired," she replied, rolling over on her side, away from him.

"You're tired because you aren't sleeping," he said "You've been having nightmares for weeks, and it's getting worse, whether you want to admit it or not—," he began.

"I don't want to discuss this," she interrupted.

"If talking now helps you sleep later, then let's do that," he said. He took a chance and sat on the edge of her bed. _I hope she doesn't kick my teeth out,_ he thought, hoping he wasn't being too presumptuous, sitting on her bed. But he didn't feel right about sitting across the room from her, either. "How long has this been going on?"

She didn't reply.

"I hope you weren't waking up like this on the _Enterprise_."

Tasha sat up, then scooted up in her bed so her back was against the wall. She pulled her knees up so she could wrap her arms around them.

"I feel like I'm being interrogated," she finally remarked.

"That's not how I meant to come across," he said. "I just want to help you, and I don't know how else I can do that."

"And I know that," she said, sighing, resigned that he wasn't going to back off, despite her wishes to be left alone. "I'd just rather not be going there. I shouldn't be dumping all this shit on you so I can feel better, especially not at 0400 hours."

"Is this about what happened on Turkana IV?"

"It's so stupid," she began. "This was years ago—,"

"I hope like hell they offered you counseling when you arrived on Earth, years ago."

She took a deep breath and finally looked at him. "They did," she replied. "Most of it went right over my head, so I just glad to get it over with. I just wanted to move on."

"I hope you didn't lie to them."

"No, I didn't lie to anyone," she replied, almost defensive.

"They sent you to counseling but they didn't confirm that you understood what was being said," he remarked.

"Something like that," she remarked, resting her forehead against her knees.

"Didn't they have a translator?" he asked.

"It was conducted in Ukrainian," she said. "It was the only Earth language I understood . . . sort of understood. But I only knew street slang from Turkana, and not the more sophisticated words to describe things, yet. Compare it to Chaney Tobin being asked to debrief to Starfleet officer-level questioning, in Standard. She would understand most of what they were saying, but she just wouldn't have the vocabulary, plus she'd be coming in with 21st century English slang."

Will nodded. "She wouldn't comprehend much of it, either."

"Exactly," she said.

"So you never really discussed that aspect of what happened."

"Not the details, no," she said. "They never asked for the details, and even if they had, I wouldn't have known what to say."

"You could have requested clarification—," he began, then stopped when she shot him a glare from across the room. Even in the darkness, he could see the daggers in her eyes.

"How the hell would I have known to request that?" she snapped.

"That's—I'm sorry," he said. "But I want to understand what happened."

_Be careful what you ask for,_ she thought. She took a deep breath, still unsure if she wanted to be going there, knowing there was a chance that he still might not understand.

"You know, I sat in that room, and answered all their questions, and wondered when it was going to be time for me to go into a back bedroom somewhere so I could earn the food they'd given me, or the clean clothes, the medical care," Tasha said. "People take these things for granted in the 24th century because they ARE granted. And I remember one of them saying that I was dismissed, but I just sat there. I didn't understand what I was being dismissed to do. And finally one of them asked me why I wasn't leaving."

"What did you say?"

"I told him that I figured I'd been sold to them for that service, and they were shocked," she said. "And I remember thinking that they'd send me back, now that they knew. One of them told me that I'd never be expected—that prostitution was illegal and frowned upon, and that from now on, I should look forward to a promising future and a good education. They explained that the Federation believed in opportunity, and didn't view it on a "cost" basis. One of them advised me not to discuss that part of my past with people because people might get the wrong idea."

"So you kept quiet about it from then on," he said. "You never discussed with anyone _that aspect_ of what happened to you, or what you saw or what you dealt with."

"Not that aspect, no," she replied. "Everything else but that. I was told not to discuss it, so I didn't."

"How about Starfleet? Didn't they bring it up in the psych screening?"

"No one asked," she replied. "They were more focused on the violence and the drug addiction and the warfare that went on. They didn't ask, so I didn't tell them."

"I wish the counselors who initially spoke with you had made damn sure you understood what was going on," Will remarked.

"I probably should have been more forthcoming," she admitted. "I took it as an order, what I was told initially. I mentioned it to a group of other girls who were attending the same, catch-up school, and that was a mistake. I learned that lesson after it was too late. After that, I just kept my mouth shut. And I hated—I was convinced that . . . I just tried to be invisible. I didn't want anyone else looking at me like that."

"That doesn't explain why you've been waking up at night."

"Just memories. . .people and places. Things that happened to those people and places. Noises, people screaming . . . I'm around it again. It's happening all around us, here. It isn't as brutal, but it's just hard to see it, again. . ."

She leaned back against the wall again, looking up toward the window, doing her best to maintain that stoic exterior that had carried her through so many, emotionally uncomfortable situations before.

"You deserve peace of mind," he said. "Your brother, your family wouldn't want you to waste your survival by feeling guilty about things you had no control over. You did the best you could do, you survived, you escaped, you joined Starfleet, you were posted on the finest ship in the fleet."

"And now I'm waiting tables," she added.

"I overheard you saying something to a kid at the Rec camp," he said. "That he needs to keep telling himself that his future's going to be better than his past, if he works at it."

She nodded.

"Then take your own advice, and you've got to let Turkana go, all these people and places that are haunting you," he said. "I know you'll never let Alek go, or your family. But the rest of it . . . that's light years away, and you left it behind for a reason. You deserve to be at peace with how far you've come and to enjoy the moments you're meant to enjoy. And you deserve to get a good night's sleep."

She nodded. "Yes, and so do you."

Despite himself, Will had to smile. He fell back asleep before she did, and he'd known she would sit awake for awhile, staring out the window as she always did. When he woke later that morning, he looked toward her bed and saw that she'd fallen asleep on her side, facing him.

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, September 20, 2008**

Nights were growing cooler, and Will looked forward to the leaves turning in Kansas City, where the huge maple and oak trees lining so many main thoroughfares would turn prior to the blessedly cooler weather.

He had stopped by the 43rd on his way home from his own workplace. It was only midnight, but he was wiped out. The jazz trio playing at Nichols that night was on fire, doing two encores. Will wasn't able to enjoy the first one, though, because he was running back and forth doing the job of two waiters.

_Now I'm getting mine for calling in sick that Saturday,_ he thought, remembering nonetheless how much fun he'd had at Camp Reconciliation. He knew Devon wasn't really sick. They all knew that. Immanuel swore that Devon had been banging some waitress who worked at USA Pub, a high-decibel meat market that catered to the college age. _That's probably where he is, having his hearing blown out by that Godawful pop mix while she's blowing him,_ Immanuel had said.

_Which is fine,_ Will had said, being philosophical at the time. _While he's getting laid, I'll be getting his tips. _Six hours later, his feet hurt and he decided to unwind with a drink at the 43rd on his way back to the apartment. Gary was off that night, so Shaun Conaghan got Will his usual, Boulevard brew. Tasha was getting her exercise, running up and down the stairs with pitchers of beer.

"Tell me something," Shaun asked Will once Tasha was out of earshot. "Is Tasha like . . . available?"

Will smiled. "I'm not her chaperone," he said. "I wouldn't know."

"You're cool with her dating other people?"

"I date other people. Why not?"

"You guys aren't..."

"Nah, we're just good friends," Will replied.

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, September 27, 2008**

Tasha tried to be as quiet as possible unlocking the door, hoping she wouldn't wake Will up. But it was already 0800 hours, and he'd been up for an hour that sunny Saturday morning.

"Good morning," he said. "I didn't know the bar closed this late."

She shot him a look to match the one that was spread all over his face. "It closed at 0200, and then I went out," she said, disappearing down the hall and into the bathroom. Without having shut the bathroom door behind her, she stood in front of the mirror and pulled the neck of her t-shirt askew slightly, wincing a bit when she saw what she'd suspected near the top of her right shoulder.

Will had followed her, and peeked around the doorframe just in time to see what she was looking at: A mouth-shaped bruise.

"That's a nice-looking muffler burn," Will said, a big grin spreading across his face.

She shot a playful look at his reflection in the mirror. "Stop," she said.

"So, whose motorcycle did you ride last night?"

"What is it with you?" she said, unable to hide a slight grin. "I never ask you about your dates."

"Oh, it might be _months_ before I get another chance to give you a hard time about a one-night stand," he quipped.

"Hey, what happens outside the apartment stays outside the apartment."

"Fair enough," he said, holding his hands up. He went back into the main room to read the paper while she took a shower, emerging 20 minutes later with damp hair and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

"Good shower?" he asked.

"Good shower."

She sat beside him. "Are you done with the sports section?" she asked, and he handed it to her even though he hadn't yet touched the sports section of the _Kansas City Star_. They sat side-by-side, reading the paper for a few minutes. Tasha sighed in disgust as she read about the Royals' latest loss in baseball, and tried to ignore Will glancing at her.

"So, where'd you go?" he finally asked.

"Out."

"Out where?"

"A place."

"Anyplace I might know about?"

"Probably not," she replied. "Not really your kind of place."

"It was a loud place, you mean," he said. Will preferred candlelight dinners with china and fine wine, while Tasha gravitated toward anything louder and wilder than that. _Who knew where she'd been, _he mused._ If her date had transportation, she could have been anywhere._

"Very loud, yes," she acknowledged.

"If you thought it was loud, I probably would not have enjoyed that place," he said. "So, other than sleeping, what's on your agenda, today?"

"What makes you think I didn't sleep, last night?"

"I'd bet real money that you didn't get much real sleep last night."

"I'm not betting anything."

"Good choice," he remarked. "You'd lose. You didn't sleep much at all."

She just grinned.

"No names?"

She shook her head.

"No hints?"

Again, she shook her head.

"Not even any filthy details?"

"Nope," she was enjoying this immensely. "You want to get coffee?"

* * *

**At the Wornall Cafe, Sept. 27, 0900 hours**

"So, do I know this person?"

"Now you're acting like a dad," she remarked, sipping a cup of coffee that steamed in the morning air outside their favorite coffee shop in Westport. Unique, locally owned and worlds better than the instant crap served up the street at the convenience stores. It had become their weekend treat. They were watching the Saturday morning crowd amble in for lattes and bagels.

She tried to change the subject. "I think the barista has at least four new piercings," Tasha remarked. "I know her eyebrow wasn't pierced last weekend."

"That's not all she's got," Will remarked. "I think she had her breasts done, earlier this spring."

"How would you know that? All she wears are loose sweaters."

"Men know," he said.

"I hadn't paid attention. I'm not interested."

"Exactly," he said. "That's why I mentioned it. I knew you wouldn't have noticed. You aren't the type to obsess about things like that."

"That's right, I'm not," she said. "I like mine just the way they are."

"How'd your date like them last night?"

She shot him a look. "I didn't hear any complaints."

"Was it Devon?"

"Who?" she asked, glancing up at him.

"You know. . ."

"What, the kid at Nichols who bathes in that nasty body spray?" Tasha replied, making a face as she raised her cup of coffee for another sip. "The Axe kid? Ewww, and _no_."

Will nodded, a grin spreading across his face.

She glanced at him over the rim of her coffee cup.

"Shaun Conaghan," Will said.

In mid-sip, Tasha had to force herself not to spray Will with coffee when she heard what he said. But she couldn't control the flush rising on her face.

"Aha!" he whispered. "I knew he'd ask you out, eventually!"

"How'd you figure that?"

"He asked me about you, earlier this summer."

She laughed a bit. "And what did you say?"

"I told him I wasn't your chaperone."

She nodded again. "Yeah, and I'm definitely not yours, either," she replied. "I've already got one full-time job."

"Ooh, low blow!" Will came back, a teasing tone in his voice.

"Sorry, sir," she said.

"No you're not," he remarked. "Isn't he starting his pharmacy residency in St. Louis?"

"Yes, he is," she replied.

"So, what are you going to do about that?"

"Nothing," she said. "Friends with benefits. No strings attached."

She rather enjoyed the genuine look of surprise on his face. She leaned forward against her elbows on the table, so her face was only two feet away from his.

"And it was _fantastic!_" she whispered, a grin spreading across her face as his mouth fell open. Then she picked up her to-go cup of coffee, and raised it slightly. "Cheers!"


	16. Chapter 16

**Future's Past, Chapter 16**

* * *

**44th and Main, Kansas City, Missouri, October 3, 2008, 0115 hours**

From his vantage point, Will thought a bomb had detonated.

The noise, directly behind him as he walked back from a busy shift at Nichols, was so loud that Will thought it was happening right behind him, and he whirled around in a defensive position, looking for cover. An automobile, still teetering in motion, spun to an upright stop, against the parked car that it struck about half a block away. Flames already were licking through its smashed grille.

Later, Will didn't remember whether he shouted at anyone to call 911. There were about a dozen people walking nearby, and most of them rushed toward the wreckage. Will knew with one glance that the car's driver was unconscious. The driver's side door was up against one of the parked vehicles, so there was no access through that route. He tried the passenger door, but it was jammed shut by the impact.

Fire began shooting between the car's hood, blackening the outside base of the shattered windshield.

Will vaguely heard a woman behind him screaming for a fire extinguisher, but he knew he'd have no time for that. He stood back and kicked at the passenger window until it shattered into safety glass granules. He tried reaching inside the car to loosen the seatbelt, but the impact had crushed the middle console up onto the seatbelt latch. It was inaccessible.

The man was breathing, blood streaming from a wound on his head. He was passed out cold, his head bleeding, slumped against the driver's side doorframe. Acrid smoke and heat from the fire began filling the car's interior. _I need a cutting tool,_ Will thought, pushing himself backward through the window.

"I need something to cut this guy's seatbelt!" Will shouted at the crowd gathering around the wreckage. He was already coughing from the smoke.

"Fire department's on the way!" one of his co-workers shouted from the front door of the restaurant.

Someone—Will never did find out who it was—shoved a tiny pair of scissors into his hands. _What the hell are these?_ he said to himself, but no matter. It was a cutting tool, and he began the arduous task of slicing through the diagonal strap holding the injured man to his seat. Within three seconds, the strap was cut, and Will began pulling the man out, not understanding at first why the man wasn't moving.

_Another belt across his lap...oh shit..._

"Pull him out!" someone else shouted. "It's going to blow up!"

Flames began shooting out the air conditioning vents at the dashboard. The car was so filled with smoke at that point that Will forced himself to hold his breath so he wouldn't pass out from toxic fumes. He couldn't see what he was slicing apart with the tiny scissors. He hoped it was the seatbelt, but he couldn't be sure until he felt the tight material he was slicing suddenly give way.

Just as Will reached beneath the man's arms, he felt at least one pair of strong hands grabbing his legs, and yanking him out of the car, just as he felt a stronger force billow through the passenger compartment. The car's interior flashed over—not explosively, but with enough force that the heat made Will reflexively jerk backward. But he held tight to the injured man the whole time, cradling his head and neck as best he could and clamping is hand over the driver's nose and mouth, taking the brunt of the heat with his own hands and arms. He shut his eyes and mouth, pressing his face against the back of the man's neck.

Will found himself on the pavement, enveloped in a cloud of powdery vapor that he could only guess was a fire extinguisher. Will held his breath again, forcing calm over himself so he wouldn't feel the need to breathe in a toxic environment. Tasha had taught him that trick some time ago, a lifetime ago, back on the _Enterprise_ during a martial arts & discipline refresher course.

People were shouting around him, but he couldn't see anything. He felt as if he were in a tunnel, hearing sounds from afar, feeling people taking the injured man from him.

He vaguely noticed the reflective-taped Nomex-clad legs of a firefighter standing in front of him. An engine had just arrived on scene, and were spraying a fog of water into the fully involved vehicle. Steam shot from the car as the truck's reel line gradually extinguished the fire, and sprayed down the parked cars it was up against.

Crackling transmissions from a portable radio jarred Will's attention. The firefighter standing in front of him was calling for a second EMS unit, and for several horrible seconds Will thought that they'd found another victim in the car. He'd been certain there was only one person, the driver, in that car, and he was out. He only realized, when the firefighter knelt before him, that the second ambulance was intended for Will.

Out of breath and coughing, Will tried to push himself up and it was only then that he realized his hands and right arm had been burned. He still held that tiny pair of scissors, originally intended for manicures before it became an de-facto extrication tool. His right thumb, now blistered, had barely fit into one of the scissor handles to begin with. Before the first responding firefighter could stop him, Will pulled the scissors off his swelling thumb, and winced in pain as the top layer of blistered skin clung to the handle and was yanked away.

* * *

Against the pleas of rescuers who initially assessed and dressed the burns on both his hands and arms, Will adamantly refused ambulance transport to the hospital. He'd heard about the bill for that, and wanted no part of it. Since this wasn't work-related, he likely would be responsible for the entire bill.

_Funny, that's how I think about it now,_ he mused, trying to ignore the stinging pain to both his hands and his right arm. _Not what I need, but what I can afford._

"If you won't let me take you, at least let a friend take you, or get a cab, or hop on the nearest bus and get to U-Med because they've got the burn center," the medic begged.

_She can't be more than 20 years old,_ Will mused. The exhaust fumes from the idling ambulance and fire trucks were making him lightheaded, and he was beginning to feel chilled in the near-freezing air that had moved into Kansas City.

"Those are second-degree burns, and they're swelling up, you're going to lose circulation in your fingers and you'll wind up having them amputated," the medic continued, her breath fogging the cold air as she begged Will to go to the hospital.

"Can I call an ambulance later if I decide to go?" Will finally asked, in hopes of getting her to leave. He had no intention of calling an ambulance, later.

"Yes," the medic replied, hoping fervently that he'd drop his macho shit, and just climb into the ambulance for a ride. "And that's WHEN you decide to go, which I still hope is now, please call us."

Barely 10 minutes had passed since the accident occurred, and Will was still pumped up with adrenalin, a fight-or-flight hormone that also happened to be a natural painkiller. But it would wear off within 15 to 20 minutes of a stressful event, and when it did, he'd be hurting. The medic had already explained this to him, and he stated he understood that.

"I don't want to go by ambulance," he reiterated.

"All right," she replied. "I can't force you to go when you've made an informed decision. Just sign here, or at least do the best you can with your hands burned the way they are . . . this releases us from any liability involved with your choice to not be transported by ambulance. You can still call us back, even if 2 minutes from now you change your mind, or you change your mind tomorrow."

"Thanks," Will replied, and then he began walking. He overheard the medic saying to her partner, _That guy'll be screaming inside of the hour. Just wait. We'll be picking him up at the QuikTrip._

"No you won't," Will muttered under his breath, beginning the long walk home.

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, Oct. 3, 2008, 0200 hours**

Will never was so glad that Tasha had beaten him home that evening. By the time he arrived back at the apartment, his burned hands were too swollen to dig his keys out of his pocket. He couldn't unlock the door.

"Hey," she said, opening the door after he knocked. "Did you finally lose your keys?"

"No, I can't move my hands to use them," he said, walking inside.

Her keen sense of smell caught the unmistakable odor of smoke clinging to him as he walked past her and into the apartment. "What happened?" she asked. "Were you in a fire?"

"Yeah," he replied, and sat on the couch. "Someone crashed his car into some parked cars on Main Street. The car caught on fire and we barely got the driver out. Just for future information, if you're ever cutting someone's seat belt, cut the lap belt, first."

"How badly are you burned?" she turned on the light and it took her eyes a few seconds to adjust, so she didn't see his hands.

He nodded. "They're not bad. I just need to lie down and sleep, and I'll be fine."

"If you're burned, we need to remove those bandages and let the burns cool or they'll get worse," she insisted.

"A paramedic wrapped these up at the scene..."

"Why didn't they take you to the hospital?" she asked. Her commanding tone was taking over. "Sit down, I need to get these bandages off. Why didn't you go to the hospital?"

"I refused transport. I can't afford that—oww!"

"These are serious burns! They're blistered up at the edges...the middle parts are probably worse!"

"Then don't look at them."

"I'm going to look at them," she insisted. He was in no position to stop her from gently unwrapping the bandages. "It looks like your shirtsleeve was burned away..."

"No shit!"

She didn't flinch at all. "Goddammit, let me see what we're dealing with, here!"

"You're not dealing with them," he replied, raising his voice. "I'm dealing with them!"

"We're BOTH dealing with them!" she responded, not backing off at all, and he did relent at that point, because deep down, he knew she was right. "They need to be unwrapped or the bandages will seal the heat in, and the burns will get deeper and more serious."

"Then why did the medics wrap them up?"

"They probably assumed you'd do the sensible thing and go to the hospital by ambulance," she replied. "This blister ruptured, so they needed to wrap it up for transport."

"You'll be happy to know that I held my breath," he said.

"What?"

"I held my breath while I was pulling him out of the car."

"That's good," she replied. "The last thing you need are airway burns. The hair on top of your head is singed—no, don't touch it!"

"How singed?"

"Nothing a good haircut won't take care of."

"Great," he muttered. "I needed one, anyway. Maybe I'll get a discount."

One of the blisters on his right arm had ruptured during his walk home, and pus had seeped through the loose bandages. They both knew that the bandages had to come off, so he stood up at the kitchen counter where the light was better, and where he could swallow 800 mg of Ibuprofen, which was all they had in the apartment for pain management.

She winced several times looking his injuries as she unwound the bandages. How the hell did you walk away like this? His right forearm was worst. It had gotten the brunt of the flashover, blistered and red from where his long shirtsleeve had caught fire. His left arm was considerably less damaged, but still sustained some second degree-level blisters on the back of his forearm and on the back of his hand and fingers.

It could have been much, much worse, but at that moment, Will was more focused on how bad things actually were. The pain from his burns had traversed beyond the throbbing point. Raw nerve endings were being squeezed by inflammation, and the constant pain was intensified by the relative lack of stress hormones, which up until then had helped mediate the agony so he could make it home.

"This is really starting to hurt," he admitted. Removing the bandages had made his wounds hurt worse, but the long-term benefits to letting the heat escape outweighed all other considerations.

"I believe that," she said. "I'll call a cab, and we'll go to the hospital."

He glanced at her, then shook his head. "No, I just want to go to bed. It'll get better with the ibuprofen. If I can get through the first 24 hours, I'll be fine. This isn't life-threatening."

_Ibuprofen isn't going to touch that,_ Tasha thought. "You don't need to be putting yourself through this—" she said.

"I'm going to bed!" he said, standing up and walking into the bedroom, where he gingerly lay down on his bed without even taking off his shoes. "I don't want to talk about it, anymore."

"And you reek of gasoline," she remarked.

"It's on my shoes. I must have stepped in it at the scene."

"You're lucky you didn't catch on fire."

"I was on fire," he replied. "My shirtsleeve was on fire."

"Can I at least take your shoes off?"

"Sure, just...look I'm sorry, I just wanted to lie down," as hurting as he was, he felt bad that he'd yelled at her earlier when she'd been trying to help him.

"That's all right," she said, unlacing the polished shoes he wore to work. He was right: Gasoline fumes emanated from both his shoes.

Tasha hoped he wouldn't get too comfortable, and that he'd stop being so damn stubborn and go to the damn hospital. She wasn't his mother, though she felt as if she needed to treat him like she was, sometimes.

"If you change your mind about going, I'll be right across the room," she said.

"Yeah, I know where you'll be," he said, draping his less-burned, left forearm over his eyes. His right forearm and hand, both bright red and blistered, rested gently atop his waistline. "Thanks," he added.

* * *

**Oct. 3, 2008, 0345 hours**

Tasha woke with a start, realizing she was _freezing_ cold. The initial instinct to snuggle beneath her blanket was overcome by a gut-wrenching sensation that something was wrong. She glanced across the bedroom, saw Will's bed was empty. She tossed back the covers and forced herself to her feet, ignoring the cold she felt on her bare arms as she walked barefoot to the main room, where she found Will slumped to his side in the middle of the couch.

His eyes were closed but she knew he wasn't sleeping. The window in the main room was open to allow frigid air inside, and he had draped a blanket around his shoulders. Only his face and both his burned arms were outside the blanket, and instantly Tasha knew his reasoning. The cold air made the burns more tolerable.

He had also turned off the apartment's heater, a tightwad even in his agony, not wanting to heat the rest of his freezing neighborhood.

Tasha retreated to the bedroom, grabbed her blanket and wrapped it around herself. Then she returned to the main room and crouched beside the sofa, where Will had splayed himself across the entire length of it. She touched his forehead, and he felt feverish. His eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn't asleep.

"Hey," she whispered. "Sit up, move over."

He used his left elbow to push himself upright on the couch, but still squeezed his eyes closed, even as she sat beside him. He was doing everything he could to avoid feeling much of anything, because his arms hurt so much. But he keenly felt her slip one hand around his waist, pulling him sideways so he could lie down on his left side across her lap with his seared, right arm hanging half-off the couch and away from both of them.

He winced as his right elbow bent slightly. He hadn't meant to have it do that, and now a fresh round of razor-sharp pain came coursing up his arm, again. Exhausted and lightheaded, he began shaking uncontrollably with what seemed like a last reserve of adrenalin, gritting his teeth in a last-ditch effort to keep from verbalizing pain.

He felt her right arm tighten around his back, and abruptly he pressed his face against the crook of her elbow as her other arm wrapped around the top of his head, as if to shelter him.

"Please let me call a cab and get you to the hospital," she whispered into his hair, holding him as close as she could without hurting him. "I don't know what else I can do to help you." _You're really scaring me, Will_, but she didn't say that, yet. She figured she'd save that one for when he refused again, perhaps after he took a nap in her lap and woke up in more pain.

But he didn't refuse, this time. She felt his head nodding slowly, then more deliberately against the crook of her left elbow.

* * *

**University Medical Center, 0445 hours**

The waiting room at University Medical Center wound up being so packed with people waiting for care that no more chairs were available. But the cab driver insisted that this was where they needed to be. _I can take you to Truman, but they ain't got a burn center and U-Med's where you'd wind up, and then you be paying for two visits. That's how they do it. Best to just go straight there,_ the driver had said.

Tasha just nodded her head, trying not to sound irritated at how long it took for a cab to show up at their apartment. She'd barely gotten Will down the stairs, and then they'd waited for more than 30 minutes. He was hurting so much he was lightheaded and nauseous, and narrowly avoided slamming the back of his head against the cab's doorframe as he fell into the back seat. She slid in beside him, and hooked a seat belt around him so he wouldn't slide across the backseat when the cab rounded corners.

There were no chairs left in the waiting room. Will wound up sitting on the floor in the waiting room, initially slumped against a wall while Tasha checked him in. He was called to the desk after 15 minutes, and had his vital signs checked. He was given wristbands to wear, but both his arms were blistered so the nurse put them around his ankles, instead.

"All right, we'll get you back as soon as we can," the nurse said. "We're full, so it'll be awhile.

"Can he have something for pain while he waits?" Tasha asked.

"A doctor has to see him first before he can have anything. These burns are more serious than most of the stuff that's sitting out there with you, so you'll get back sooner, but it'll still take some time. We just got slammed."

An hour passed. Tasha went up to the triage desk twice, asking how much longer Will had to wait, that he was in a great deal of pain. The second time, she began begging for painkillers for him. She was met with a headshake from the overwhelmed triage nurse, who couldn't do anything by hospital protocol. The back rooms were full, and the hallways beds each had a patient in them.

"He can sit up in a chair," Tasha said, desperate.

"There are people sitting out among you who are having chest pain, and I can't get them back here, either," the nurse replied. "We're out of wheelchairs and we're full. I'm sorry."

She returned to their spot in the middle of the waiting room, and found that Will had laid his head down on the floor. He was in such agony that he no longer gave a damn what else might be living on that floor.

"Will, no, not on the floor—," she stammered. She wasn't hedging her bets that the floor was as clean as it appeared. It probably had only been cleaned with soap and water hours ago, and had since been trodden, bled upon and vomited on by multiple people. She sure as hell didn't want him putting his face or his burned arms and hands on the floor. Burned skin was a wide-open door for infection.

"Sit back up, come here," she said, once again supporting him. She sat back against the wall with her legs straddled, guiding him to lie back against her and rest his shoulders against her upper chest. She slipped her arms beneath his, locking her hands across his chest to hold him up.

"Just rest against me," she said. "Don't lie down on that floor."

His head relaxed back against her left shoulder, and as his temple touched the side of her face, she could feel that he was still somewhat feverish.

Others in the waiting room seemed too preoccupied with their own misery to worry much about two people who missed out on an actual chair in the waiting room. Will didn't much care whether he was in a chair or not, but was mildly comforted by Tasha's incessant badgering of the overwhelmed triage nurse, and then of her holding him up off the floor.

Tears of pain began seeping from his eyes, but he no longer cared. "How much longer, do you think?" he managed to say after a few minutes.

"She said she didn't know," she replied, sensing that prolonged agony finally had broken through his usually stoic exterior. She asked the only question she could think of that would yield an honest answer from him. "How bad are you?"

"I'm awful," he replied, his emotions finally overtaking him. "The new me. Four years old..."

"No, I don't think that at all," she whispered, tightening her arms around him, even as one of his tears dripped from the side of his face and onto her neck. "You do what you need to do."

* * *

**October 3, 0615 hours**

"I don't know why they can't medicate your pain while you wait."

"Thanks for trying," he said, drawing what comfort he could from her, so afraid that by relaxing back against her, he was flattening her. "I don't want to squish you."

"You're not squishing me."

"I'd be enjoying this if I weren't so messed up," he quipped. Her embrace was genuinely comforting. Other than kicking the ED doors and storming the place—which wouldn't have helped—she was doing the best she could to get him inside the treatment area, and she was being tactful about it. The First Officer that still existed in the recesses of Will's mind couldn't help but be proud.

"At least your sense of humor's still there," she replied.

"Laughter's the best medicine," he said, and despite her frustration and his agony, they both had to smile a bit, even as the ER doors slid open with another patient being carried into the already saturated ED.

She was young, maybe four years old, proffering her swollen fingers toward anyone who cared to look. Her mother seemed hysterical, apologetic about a bedroom door that had been slammed during an argument, that she hadn't noticed her own kid cowering beneath. The kid's fingers were either broken or dislocated, grotesquely misshapen.

Tasha could sense the unmistakable odor of marijuana smoke wafting past as the mother wove past waiting people toward the Triage desk. The child had long since stopped crying and now looked resigned even as her drugged-up mother continued her crocodile-tear tirade. As her eyes met Tasha's, the girl craned her head to keep Tasha in her sight, sensing a familiarity. They shared a silent communication, an acknowledgement as fellow survivors of childhood abuse.

* * *

**Oct. 3, 0940 hours**

Will's first conscious thought came much later, and even then he felt more stoned than he'd been at the Swope Park concert earlier that summer.

He chanced opening his eyes and everything was blurry. Bright floors glared from farther away, but someone had dimmed the overhead lights so it was dark where he was. He could discern two, plastic bags of fluid with clear tubing hanging from a pole nearby. The tubing went into two machines also attached to the pole, and they dealt out that fluid in increments into another tube running toward another, taped bandage on the inside of his left forearm.

Will lifted his head slightly to investigate further, saw a head of tousled, blonde hair resting on the bed on his left side. Tasha had fallen asleep at his bedside, resting her head against the bed he was sleeping on.

"Hey, Tash," he said, and abruptly, she raised her head, her eyes bleary from sleep.

"Hey," she replied, then smiled. She was sitting in a chair next to the bed he was lying upon. "How are you doing?"

"Better," he said, his voice raspy. "I'm drugged up on something."

"Morphine for your pain, and zofran for the puking," she said. "You got really nauseous from the morphine. And you've got something called an IV in your arm. It's giving you fluid and medication."

"I'm feeling fine now," he replied.

"Good stuff, isn't it?"

"What time is it?"

"Uh. . .it's daytime. I don't know."

"How's the hero?" a male voice said. "You're awake. I'm Luis. I'm your nurse."

Will regarded him, processing what he'd just said. "Uh . . . I'm stoned."

The nurse, who wore dark green scrubs, an earring and a goatee, laughed outright. "Yeah, you're getting morphine," he replied. "We've all been wondering when you'd show up. I don't know how you stayed away this long with burns like this."

"How'd you know I was injured?"

"The medics who brought in the man whose life you saved told us that you were seriously burned and that you'd refused transport," Luis said. "We figured you'd be in within two hours. But here you are, five hours later, plus the two hours you'd camped out in triage. For the record, that pissed me off that they kept you out there like that, but there wasn't much we could do about it. We were full to the gills until we dismissed all those folks who didn't need to be here in the first place."

"How's he doing?"

"The man you pulled out of the car?" Luis said. "By privacy law I'm not supposed to tell anyone outside the care team, but you were the first one on scene, so you're part of the care team as far as I'm concerned. He's upstairs in the burn unit. He'll be OK, but he's got a concussion and a sternal fracture and he's got about 20 percent body surface burned. No inhalation trauma, and no neck trauma. You did it right. You paid for it, but you did it right. You're getting IV fluids to replace what you lost from your burns. That's a deep second-degree burn to the backs of your right arm and right hand, and those are first and second-degree burns on your left hand and forearm. You got lucky that the burns didn't go all the way around either limb. Circumferential burns are much worse."

He glanced up at the bag of fluid hanging from a pole attached to Will's bed. "We'll let this run into you and then see about getting you dismissed," Luis continued. "Your sister said you were sleeping with the window open so the cold air got to the burns. And you left them out in the air and didn't put anything on them. That was really smart. The burns didn't get deeper because they were cooled off. You probably saved yourself skin grafts and a hospital admission."

"I thought I was admitted," he said.

"Just to the ED. We'll check with wound care, and then you can go home with some painkillers. And she got you some sweatpants. That'll make things easier."

"That's great," he said, groggily. "I'm glad the man's doing OK."

* * *

After Luis adjusted the fluid infusion rate and left the room, Will looked over at Tasha.

"Sister?" he whispered.

"Little white lie to get past HIPAA," she whispered back. "Otherwise they'd have kicked me out."

"Good lie, though," he said. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

"Thanks for taking care of me, last night," he remarked.

"Well, I owed you," she replied, smiling. "Now it's your turn, again."

"I thought ED meant something else," Will muttered.

"What?"

"There are commercials on TV, people who are talking about erectile dys—,"

She shook her head, and couldn't help smiling a bit. "No, in here they're referring to the emergency department."

"Oh," Will said. "Well, that's a relief."

"Yes, it is," she said, laughing outright. _How like Will Riker, to think along those lines,_ she thought. _Guess he must be all right._

"What did he mean about sweat pants?" he asked.

"Oh, your hands are going to be too sensitive for the next couple of days," Tasha replied. "So after the morphine knocked you out, I ran up to the hospital's bookstore and grabbed some sweat pants for you. Don't worry, I got them off the sale rack."

"What for?"

"You aren't going to be able to zip and unzip your pants," she remarked. "There are some types of assistance where I draw the line."

"Well, thank you for helping me to maintain what's left of my dignity," he said. "I don't even remember coming in here."

"You were out of it," she said.

"I'm feeling no pain at all . . ."

"I bet you aren't!" she said, actually laughing a bit before putting one hand on his left shoulder. "Just try to rest, all right? Everything's OK. Don't worry about anything . . ."

Will nodded, allowing himself to drift off, again. And then he dreamed, recalling some of what had happened earlier. He specifically remembered struggling to his feet from that waiting room floor. Someone was pulling him up, standing behind him to hoist him by his armpits just enough to pivot him to a waiting wheelchair, then he was pushed someplace where there was a bed, and then the moving process started over. _Stand up, sit down here, scoot over in the bed . . . a little more . . . all right, stop._

He felt something gripping his upper arm, blocking the bloodflow, increasing the pain in the burns he had on that arm. The same thing that squeezed his arm when he'd had his blood drawn months ago, and he hadn't liked that at all. _Get that thing off,_ he argued, knowing what was coming.

_We need to put a needle in your arm, _he hadn't recognized the male voice . . . that nurse, Luis, had to be. _There's going to be a stick, so try not to move._

Will remembered nodding, the back of his head catching against the flat, plastic-lined pillow he lay upon. The lights above his head were piercing, too bright. Then he felt something sharp pierce the inside of his right arm, at the joint, digging around just beneath his skin, then deeper than that.

_Stop it!_ he'd exclaimed aloud, jerking his arm away, prompting at least one set of hands to hold both arms down.

Someone else was touching his forehead, he looked up, saw Tasha right in his face, centimeters away. _They want to give you fluids and pain medications. If you move around, they'll need to stick you again, _she was saying, calm but intense._ Look at me, and let them take care of you._

_Get Dr. Crusher! _he had said.

_She's not available, _Tasha had replied, not missing a beat. He could feel cool fluid deploying inside his right arm, an unnerving sensation._ Just let them take care of you._

_Why aren't we beaming out of here?_

_Look at me, _she was holding both sides of his head, forcing him to look up at her, hoping that he wouldn't wiggle around. Then all at once, his pain faded away into a fog. He was aware, but no longer in pain._ Don't worry about it. They just gave you some pain medication. _

_We need to beam out, _he had said, struggling to move either of his hands to tap the combadge that had to be on his chest._ What's wrong with the transporter?_

_What's he talking about?_ said someone else, one of the ED techs who was pinning Will's upper arms flush to the bed. Will could feel tape being applied to the inner part of his arm, but he no longer cared. As far as he was concerned, they could do whatever they wanted to him, as long as the pain would stop.

_I don't know,_ Tasha had lied. _Must be the drugs._

* * *

**Oct. 3, 2008, 2015 hours**

By that afternoon, Will was able to stand up and walk around. The ED physician had looked at his burns and determined he could treat himself at home, and recommended pain medications to get him through those first hours of searing pain, and those first few days when he needed to do exercises to prevent scar tissue from seizing up his hands.

_But you need to do those exercises,_ the doctor said, firmly. _Several times a day, do these exercises, and take the pain meds to get you through it. Otherwise you'll have lifelong issues with range of motion. Got it?_

Knowing that Will probably wouldn't remember anything that the doctor had said, Tasha insisted she'd make sure Will would do the exercises. Will was still too snowed to care.

He had left the ED on autopilot, snowed with residual morphine that was intended to get him home. With Tasha flanking him, he had ridden the bus back to their apartment, trudged up the stairs of the building, and sat down on the couch almost immediately on arriving in his apartment.

_You all right?_ Tasha had asked, for the umpteenth time.

He had nodded, and vaguely heard her saying something about needing to go to the Main Street pharmacy to get bandaging supplies, which the hospital pharmacy hadn't possessed for some reason.

_At least they had your pain meds,_ she'd said. But it wasn't time for Will to take any of them, yet. _Not until 2200 hours, and I'll be back by then. _

She left the bottle on the kitchen counter, and departed for the pharmacy, which was only six blocks away. But it was the only 24-hour pharmacy open in the area. Will's hands were thickly bandaged and he was still loopy on morphine, already falling asleep on the couch when she left. _He'll be fine,_ she thought.

* * *

**Oct. 3, 2008, 2115 hours**

"How many did you take, Will?" Tasha asked, forcefully, as if she were interrogating someone who'd stumbled into The Rec after a 'bad hit', as they put it in this century. But this was in her own apartment, and she'd returned with two bags of bandaging supplies to find the bottle of pain pills had been opened, its lid left on the kitchen counter.

She'd found Will in the bedroom, splayed out on his bed, and had nonchalantly asked how he'd managed to get the top off the notoriously hard-to-open child-resistant bottle. His slurred response immediately worried her.

"These are 5 mg tablets," Tasha said. _Don't panic, just count out the pills that are left, _she thought. _There should be 25 of them . . . 19, 20, 21. _"Holy shit. Did you take _four _of these at the same time?"

"I think so," he replied. He was back in his bed, his less-burned left arm thrown up over his eyes, mostly to quell the vertigo now swirling through his mind. "It said one to two as needed. I might have taken three . . ."

"Your system isn't ready for such a large dose—and this is an overdose—of an opiate," Tasha replied, mostly through her teeth because she was furious with him. "You need to titrate them."

"I needed to do _what_?"

"To take only the amount needed to achieve pain relief," she said. "Start with smaller doses. You sure as hell aren't supposed to be taking more than two!"

"I was hurting a lot," he replied. But now he was paying for it in a frightening way. He'd staggered to the bathroom earlier, just before she got back, and nearly passed out while he was standing up. "I figured if one took the edge off, more would be better."

"No, more is NOT better," she said, anger now mixing with her concern.

"I almost passed out getting into the bathroom," he admitted.

"Thank you for not falling," she replied, slipping her fingers around the inside of one of his ankles. She was feeling for the pulse point commonly found at that location, and its had a barely-there, thready quality that confirmed what she already suspected: His blood pressure was being impacted by the narcotic. _No wonder he said he was lightheaded when she stood up,_ she thought. Since his body wasn't used to taking painkillers, his circulatory system hadn't adjusted to the side effects, including a drop in blood pressure and slowing of his respirations.

_His respirations,_ she thought. _Well, at least he's talking. That's a good sign._ "Keep breathing, all right?"

"I'm breathing," he replied, his voice trailing off into drugged slumber. "I'm fine . . . I'll be fine . . . I'm just a little out of it . . ."

But Tasha didn't like _how_ he was breathing: Too shallow, and she suspected too slow. She watched him nodding off again, and counted how often he took a breath: 8 to 10 breaths per minute. _He's dangerously snowed,_ she thought, and decided to call Kim Tobin, who was supposed to drop by tomorrow morning anyway, to look at Will's burns and give some 24th century nursing advice to Tasha on how to deal with wound care.

Tasha sat on the edge of her bed, watching Will snoring his way through a hydrocodone overdose while she filled Kim in on that evening's new development.

"—If I just watch him until it wears off, that he'll be all right," Tasha said over the phone. "I just don't know when it'll be safe to allow him to have more painkillers . . . probably at about 2030 hours. I got back at 2045 with those bandaging supplies you'd—I don't know how he got the cap off the bottle. . ."

Inwardly cursing herself that she'd left the apartment at all, even to get necessary bandaging supplies, Tasha listened carefully to Kim's instructions. The Tobins had a computer and Kim could look up the medication, which wasn't used in the 24th century.

"5 milligrams per pill, and he took four of them," Tasha replied, reading off the bottle. She could hear Kim typing something into her computer, and was somewhat relieved to hear that Will wouldn't need to go back to the hospital, as long as someone stayed with him and watched him while the meds wore off.

"It'll take several hours," Kim said. "It says here that Lortabs also have acetaminophren, which is hepatotoxic. You'll need to monitor his respirations and call an ambulance if they drop too low. They do carry a reversal agent that'll help him, so keep an eye on him."

"Oh, I'll be up all night watching him."

"If you can't rouse him with jostling, call an ambulance," Kim continued. "I mean it. If he get hacked off at you later for calling an ambulance, put it on me, all right? His body needs to metabolize what he's already taken. Before I come over tomorrow, I'm going to stop by the pharmacy here and see if they have anything that would work for detox."

* * *

After receiving more reassurances from Kim, Tasha sat holding the phone, staring at Will from across the room.

"Will," she said, noticing that his color wasn't terrific. "Wake up!"

"Huh?" he startled, a bit, took the first breath he'd had in 10 seconds.

"You need to breathe more often."

His eyes floated closed, again, and he began snoring, again. _Not good,_ Tasha thought. _He's so drugged up that his tongue is relaxing and blocking his airway._ She retreated to the closet and brought back two washcloths, folding them up in a way that would pad behind his neck, so his head would tip backward. _If his head is tilted backward, it'll keep his tongue from blocking his airway,_ she thought. _It'll be uncomfortable, but he's feeling nothing right now. He needs to breathe more than he needs to be comfortable._

She flipped on the bedroom light, hoping that would add some stimulation. But Will didn't stir much, even when she slipped the washcloths beneath his neck and tilted his head back. His respiratory rate and depth didn't change, but at least he was breathing clearly. She crawled onto his bed, atop the sheet that was covering him, and sat between him and the wall. He stirred somewhat from the movement so close to him, though by then the full effect of the Lortab had hit him.

"Breathe, Will," she said.

He didn't stir.

She reached over one of his bandaged arms and made a fist, then rubbed her knuckles forcefully against the center of his chest. He startled, inhaled, and moaned.

"You've got to keep breathing," she said, firmly. "I'm going to wake you up constantly if that's what it takes to get you breathing enough to live through the night, otherwise I'm calling an ambulance."

"Don't do that," he muttered, then fell asleep again.

"I can't believe _you_ did this," she muttered.

For the next two hours, Tasha sat awake next to him, with one arm halfway across him, applying either a shove, or a sternal rub as needed to stimulate him to breathe. Usually she needed to do that two to three times a minute. By 0300 hours, his breathing had quickened to a normal rate. He slept soundly, occasionally stirring.

_I figured he'd have awakened by now, wanting more pain meds,_ she thought, a yawn creeping across her own face. Already exhausted from being up most of the night with him, only catnapping during the day at the ED, she'd traversed the last few hours on final reserves of adrenalin, an energy surge bent on keeping her best friend alive.

_My best friend,_ she thought. _Even when he does something like this, pisses me off, worries me because he could have died. What if I'd been working tonight and he'd done this?_ She knew the Lortabs had begun to wear off, that he'd be all right. But she didn't move from the warm spot where she'd curled up beside him, nor did she move her hand from atop his chest. It was comforting to feel his chest rising and falling rhythmically, nearly at the same rate as her own breathing.

_He'll be OK,_ she thought, fatigue overtaking her as her adrenalin surge wore off. She lay down beside him and as her eyes drifted shut, she told herself she was only napping, that she needed to give Will his space. _I'll move in a few minutes. I should get back into my own bed . . ._ but of course, she didn't.

* * *

**October 4, 0530 hours**

Pain crept up on Will as he slept off the remainder of the Lortab overdose he'd taken. By the time he's senses returned enough to be roused by the apartment's central heater kicking on, even small movements of his arms yielded knife-like, burning sensations that were impossible to ignore.

The pain medications had worn off.

He groaned, squinting his eyes against illumination from the bedside lamp, apparently left on. He saw that Tasha wasn't in her bed, but quickly realized she was lying in his, instead. She lay on her side, facing him, with her left arm gently resting against his chest.

"Hey, Tash," he whispered.

She startled awake, her eyes initially unfocused, but then remembered where she was and pulled her arm away, embarrassed.

"How are you doing?" she asked, struggling to sit up.

"You know, I'm thinking we had some night," he began. "I just woke with painful, bandaged hands, and you're in bed with me."

She glared back at him, and Will knew instantly his joke fell flat. Her eyes were encircled with darkness, exhaustion and deadly serious.

"You scared the hell out of me," she remarked.

* * *

**Oct. 5, 2008**

"Ow! Shit . . !" Will winced, fresh pain searing through his right hand.

"Sorry," Tasha remarked, pausing from her task of removing bandages on Day Three after Will was burned. They were healing well, thanks to consistent dressing changes and movement. But Will was being stubborn again. After his overdose experience, he had been hesitant to take painkillers, hoping to tough it out through the necessary changing of bandages.

"They gave you hydrocodone for a reason," she said. "I wish you'd take it."

"I've taken enough of it," he muttered, more than a bit embarrassed that he'd ODed two days earlier.

"You just needed to titrate it, not overdose on it."

"Yeah, and Kim told me more about that stuff," he said. "She said it was addictive."

"Not if you take it short-term," Tasha said.

"And she said I'd get constipated."

Tasha nodded. "Yes, if you don't drink enough water while you're taking it."

"She told me to eat lots of lettuce and fiber," Will said.

"Good advice," Tasha said. "I'm glad she told you to review your fiber intake."

Will rolled his eyes. _One visit to Panchos, and I'm branded for life._ Two weeks earlier, he had tried an area Mexican restaurant with a half-off lunch buffet coupon. And then he had spent the better part of the next day in the bathroom with the window open.

Though not one to delight in anyone's misery, Tasha nonetheless thought it was funny. She had teased him for days, even clipping another newspaper coupon for the same establishment, and strategically propping it in his side of the bathroom cabinet.

But now, she was removing damp bandages from his two-day-old burns. He'd just showered, using several, newspaper bags layered over his burned hands and right arm. Grateful that he didn't need to ask Tasha to help him in the shower, he now acquiesced to having her remove the bandages and re-wrap with dry dressings before he fell asleep.

Will was glad for the help. She seemed like she knew what she was doing. She had him sit for several minutes with his arms bare, allowing the skin to dry before re-bandaging it.

"If you can't do your stretching or bandaging without a painkiller, you won't regain your flexibility," Tasha said. "You're not going to get addicted from a couple of days of using a narcotic analgesic, especially if you taper off."

"It makes me nauseous," he said. "Maybe I'm allergic to it."

"No, nausea is a side effect, not an allergy," Tasha remarked. "That ginger tea you made for me several months ago probably would work to alleviate some of that nausea. You'll need to teach me how to make it."

"I'll teach you," he said. "I owe you. If you hadn't removed the first round of bandaging last night, I probably would have been admitted to U-Med with deeper burns. I'm just glad you've had experience with medical."

"A little, yeah," she remarked, dabbing neosporin onto the blistered areas. "Those burns were fresh. It made sense they still needed to cool, so I took the initial bandages off."

"How'd you learn about this?" he asked.

"From the medical training I had through Starfleet Security," she said. "And from Kim Tobin."

"Oh," Will said. "I figured it was from the church fire."

"No, it wasn't from that." she finally said after a few seconds, not expecting him to reference the cadre-set fire that killed many of her relatives on Turkana. "It was already over by the time I got there. Even if we'd arrived sooner, I wouldn't have known what to do."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to, uh..."

"It's all right," she replied. "It was a legitimate question."

"Can I ask another question?"

"Sure," she said, completely comfortable with telling him anything, by then.

"Do you think about it, often?"

"I'm reminded of it," she replied. "I thought about it the instant you walked into the apartment after you were burned. I could smell it."

"Burned flesh?"

She nodded. "It's not something you forget," she said. "There were people on the surface of Turkana who survived the nukes, and they made it below ground later. Their skin was hanging off, their hair was gone, they were going to die, they just weren't dead, yet. Someone shot them."

Will let out a breath.

She glanced up at him. "It was better," she replied, then looked at his arm again. "They were suffering."

She began wrapping fresh gauze around his burned, right arm. Intent on her task, she said nothing else as she was securing dressing to his wounds.

"I had hoped this wasn't bringing back bad memories," he finally said. "I'm sorry that I rubbed it in."

"You didn't," she replied. "I just did that with the Neosporin."

"I'm grateful," he said. "I'd give you a hug, if I could."

She smiled. "I'll take a raincheck. I don' t want you touching anything, right now, and not just because you'll make things gooey."

"Well, gooey can be a very good thing," he quipped. "If it's in the right context."

She looked at him, a smile spreading across her face even as she shook her head. "You're an incorrigible, walking gland, Will," she said. "You've got these burns, you're in pain, and you're still thinking about getting laid!"

He laughed outright. "I'm a guy," he said. "I'm always thinking about getting laid. I do like the 'walking gland' reference. Was that another Tasha original?"

"Uh, well, credit where credit is due," she replied. "That was one of Shaun's lines. He was describing you, by the way. He's seen you in action, picking up women at the 43rd."

He smiled back at her. "So, how is the Conaghan gland, lately?"

Without missing a beat, she looked up at him. "The Conaghan gland is functioning very well."

"Functioning fully, huh?" Will nodded. "So, he won't need Data to give him any tips for future reference?"

"Will," she muttered, with teasing but warning tone. "Stop it."

"Just trying to get you to laugh, again," he said.

"It worked," she remarked, finally smiling despite herself.

* * *

**At the Tobin residence in Mission, Kansas, Oct. 18, 2008**

Since Will couldn't carry trays, he wound up maitre'd-ing for nearly two weeks. He felt fortunate that he still had a job, though he was a little miffed about missing out on tips he would have made from waiting on customers. He learned that the man he'd rescued would face a long recovery, but that he would be all right. The motorist actually had insurance, but Will was likely to face a battle in getting the insurance company to help pay his medical bills. He had been injured during a Good Samaritan rescue, but he hadn't been involved directly in the accident, itself.

He wasn't looking forward to that uphill battle, but he'd take it on, if it could avoid what was likely to be a huge hospital bill.

_It's cheaper to die here than it is to live,_ he'd joked with Kim Tobin, who had nodded in response. She'd been a great help during Will's initial time at the apartment, supplementing Tasha's tac-med training with more chronic care lessons. But regardless, Tasha seemed very at-ease with assessments and patching people up.

_I'll need to make sure she gets a nice commendation in her file,_ he thought. He'd been thinking about something Gary had said, about how they'd put an advertisement in the newspaper hoping that someone would see it, either now or in the future during a historical documents search.

_It might work,_ he thought. _We'll still need to be careful, but maybe if it's less wordy and more direct, it might work. _

The sun was setting, and Will and Gary were sitting on the Tobin's back deck, watching Tasha and the girls kicking a soccer ball back and forth in the large back yard, which they'd had fenced several years ago with a 6-foot-tall, privacy fence. They also had a row of pine trees lining the border between them and their neighbors, which Gary was especially proud of.

Six-year-old Chandler Tobin was entrenched in the sport of soccer, and had become buddies with fellow athlete Tasha Yar, who was teaching her how to bounce a soccer ball from knee-to-knee. Chandler had become "Chaney" lately, a nickname that had been stuck on her when little sister Piper was first learning to talk and couldn't pronounce her big sister's name.

"I didn't know Tasha knew how to play soccer," Gary said.

"I didn't know that, either," Will remarked. "Doesn't surprise me, though."

"Chaney really enjoys hanging out with her," he added. "But would we go back? Yeah, we'd go back. Kim and I have been doing some planning about what we'll do. It's not that long until this world comes to an end for awhile, you know what I mean? We'd been trying to figure out where we'd go. We don't want to be anywhere near Omaha, though. I do remember that. And the missile ranges in the Dakotas, anywhere in Colorado...they got the bejesus bombed out of them."

"That's why Tasha and I are going to try something, but we need your help."

"You got it," Gary replied.

"We're going to try the same 'classified ad' publication that you did. We're going to advertise in the _Kansas City Star_ at first, and if we don't get a hit off those, we might try others but we don't know which ones might be searched in the future."

"It's worth a try," Gary replied. "We'll need to remember as many as possible, and then go from there."

"That's our problem. I slept through Earth Civ," Will admitted. "It was all new to Tasha...she's not from Earth, so she doesn't remember sources of information as well as an Earth native might."_

"I'll talk with Kim when she gets home from work," Gary said. "I didn't go to the Academy, and until I got stuck back here, history wasn't my thing. Kim's not from Earth, either, but she did a bunch of work with nursing and medical history. I don't know how much she remembers from this time period. I might also give Gavin Machias a call...he was still a kid when we arrived here, he might remember more EarthCiv any of us would."

"From these sources, you mean?"

"Yeah," Gary replied. "But it makes sense. There's got to be a directory, something that remains searchable from our century—the 24th century, I mean. For the search to be successful, though, people from the 24th century would need to know who to search for, and why, and where to search. There are almost too many resources, these days...so much of the material that was on the Internet vanished during World War III. From what I remember, much of the material that did survive was printed."

Will furrowed his brow, then nodded his head. "That makes sense," he said. "I hadn't thought about how much material is on the Internet as opposed to being on paper."

"It's all been recently," Gary replied. "Some directories don't even print on paper, anymore. Those are the ones that were lost. Did Tasha tell you about the phone calls we got when we tried this in the Star?"

"Yeah, she said people called but that none of them know anything about anything," Will replied.

"That's a nice way of putting it," Gary said, chuckling a bit. "I think we said too much in our ad. We should have been more vague with the reason and more clear with our names, our ship and how to contact us. You need another beer?"

"Sure," Will replied.

"Still need help opening it?"

"No, my hands are almost back to normal, thanks," Will said. "So, you got phone calls."

"We had some folks call us, and they're living for the Age of Aquarius," Gary said. "I mean, I'd like to go home at some point, but I don't care to go through that crap again. These folks were into crystals and the fifth dimension and all sorts of gobbledeegook . . . I didn't get any of it. I think this world's just full of kooks who've made up stuff and they exist in their own universe, but it works for them, you know?"

"Well, we exist in our own universe, and we've made it work for us, too."

"One way of looking at it," Gary nodded. "Maybe you guys will have better luck."

"I think we'll start by listing just the two of us and our ship's name," Will said. "If we hear from anyone, you want in on it?"

"Absolutely," Gary said. "Just don't be surprised at some of the responses you'll get from people who ain't playing with a full deck. Your messages should be interesting."

* * *

They put a series of advertisements in, every day for one week, in the Kansas City Star. The figured they'd start there, and if they got no results, they'd save some money and risk a more widespread publication.

Since they were billed on the length of their advertisement, they kept it short, sweet, to the point. Two lines. They figured if any reader actually understood the message, they'd call. They used their real names and Will's cell phone number.

"_William Riker, Natasha Yar, Enterprise, in Kansas City, 816-555-7471"_

_Author's Note: OK, in the real, 21st century world, Will would have had a nice dose of Narcan (a reversal agent) his Lortab OD. It brings these folks out of their opiate overdoses VERY fast (they come out swinging and kicking). Lots of street druggies who hang out together jostle each other through minor ODs, which is what happened here (they only call EMS once their buddies stop breathing, and by then it's usually too late). But the "jostle 'em" treatment is not optimal at best, and very dangerous at worst. Bottom line: Don't try this at home, kids._


	17. Chapter 17

**Future's Past, part 17**

* * *

**Aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_**, 2364**

Louden Kendall was about to call it a night. In addition to assisting the _Enterprise_ senior staff with locating two lost officers, he'd been forced to improvise lesson plans. His history students were preparing for a mid-quarterly exam, and he hadn't been able to utilize the Holodeck to emphasize topics.

Captain Picard had held all Holodeck programs pending the recovery of the officers, and a safety review of the programs. The senior staff was convinced that the Holodeck was a secondary adjunct, and that an anomaly outside the ship had been to blame. But the coincidences were enough to shut down the Holodeck, for now. Lt. Com. Data and Lt. LaForge were working feverishly on a technical solution to the problem, but that still wouldn't solve where the missing officers were. Kendall's wife, Marta, was also part of that engineering team, and she was staying late to help run system analysis.

As he prepared to test his students' knowledge about the 19th century, an idea occurred to Lt. Kendall. A longshot, really, but he'd used the same source for his own thesis years earlier. He tapped into the ship's computer for access to old news records, keyed in the names of both officers who were missing, and stood up from his desk to make sure his son had actually gone to bed. Lately he'd been staying up, reading book tablets beneath the covers. Sam was fast asleep.

Kendall walked back toward his desk. He was tired after a long day, and originally intended to shut off his computer for the night. Exhausted, he almost turned it off until he remembered having run a historical documents scan.

But that search had yielded a hit, in the year 2008, in the Kansas City Star's classified advertising section, a mishmash that Kendall had learned not to overlook during his thesis research. The newspaper classifieds said a lot about the past society, what was being sold and sought, and announced. The blurb was small, three lines buried in the "misc" section that Kendall could see was a collection of announcements. It may have been a hit from 350 years in the past, but Kendall didn't waste any more time. This was the clue they needed. He immediately contacted Captain Picard.

* * *

**Will Riker's log, written on a spiral notebook, Kansas City, MO, Earth, Late October 2008**

_I look at my life now, and wonder what I can make of it without changing the future from whence I came. I feel like I'm in a rut waiting tables, ingratiating myself to patrons who really don't give a damn, existing from one day to the next At least Tasha's working with someone who understands us. In a stroke of complete luck, her boss is also from the 24th century. She still volunteers at the shelter that gave us a hand up when we first arrived, feeling compelled to give back. _

_We placed an ad in the Kansas City Star, hoping that maybe if someone is looking for us we'll trip some search engine. Of late, Tasha has been talking about this a lot. She hadn't mentioned for months and suddenly, she needed to discuss it. She told me she still wonders if this is a prolonged exercise, that perhaps we aren't living this, at all. _

_"We might have been drugged," she'd mused, grasping at reasons. But I know that deep-down, she didn't believe what she was saying. The only reason she was saying it was to get me to laugh, to loosen up, because I'd been thinking about it, too much. Our roles had reversed, somewhat. I used to be the one trying to get her to relax._

_"We might be in sickbay right now, unconscious on a biobed and hooked up to a neurostimulator, just 'living' this as an exercise," she added. "And if that's the case, I hope they're enjoying the show."_

_But it feels too real. The boredom, the harried moments in our workplaces, the genuine fun that Tasha and I have had, the anguish of our arguments and so many conversations. Tasha and I can finish each other's sentences, at this point. _

_Nineteen months..._

_The United States presidential election is coming up, soon. Tasha and I are both glad that it's going to be over with, because we're sick of hearing about it. But we're hoping we'll be found before everything begins deteriorating. We remember enough of EarthCiv to know that things are going to get bad, and soon, within a few years. This election won't change anything in Earth's destiny. It will only hasten battles that had been stewing for years. _

* * *

**Reconciliation shelter in Kansas City, MO, October 29, 2008**

Tasha was at the Rec, helping fellow volunteers with a Halloween party for homeless kids who came to The Rec for assistance. She'd helped them dress up into costumes that had been donated for parties like this, and it had seemed very important for these kids to have someplace safe to get candy and have a party.

One of the regular kids, a 9-year-old who attended school nearby but lived at the shelter with his dad, an HIV-positive drug addict, was there that evening, dressed in a costume as a pop culture character known as SpiderMan. The outfit easily was five sizes too big for him, but he wasn't worried about that. His mother had been shot four years earlier, and the kid now possessed an uncanny wisdom.

"You know, as appreciative as I am, I hope in the future they fix this problem," he remarked one day to Tasha.

"Hmm?"

"That there ain't a need for shelters."

"Guess we're here until they figure out a way to not need places like this, anymore," Tasha replied.

"My dad said if I study hard, I'll get a scholarship and go to college," he said. "Is that true?"

"Anything's possible when you aim high," she said.

"But I ain't got nothin'..."

"And? I started with nothing, too," she said. "My parents got killed when I was little. But I still grew up."

"And you're right back here," the kid replied, not missing a beat.

"I'm here by choice," Tasha replied. "You've got to believe your future is going to be better than your past."

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, October 30, 2008**

Will arrived back at the apartment, armed with a bag of Halloween candy he'd purchased to thwart any more, October 31-related spray-paint attacks. They had learned the hard way that if they didn't give out candy to costumed children on that date, they could expect vandalism by the time they woke up the next morning.

Neither appreciated last year's redecoration that had been visited across their apartment door. It had taken a $12 can of mineral spirits and lots of elbow grease to remove the metallic gold, spray-painted word "FUCKTARDS" from the door and frame. Even the linguistically un-offendable Natasha Yar had shaken her head at that one.

The vandalism itself didn't make much sense to either of them, but it made more sense to Will to prevent another mess from happening the next Halloween. So he purchased a large bag of Halloween candy, in case dressed-up children pounded on their door.

Will had had his own scare the day before. He had straggled in at about 2330 hours from work, and had found Tasha still awake after a day at The Rec. She was sitting on the couch, playing with . . . a cat.

"What is that doing in our apartment?" Will asked. If she's playing with it, Will mused, it's never leaving our apartment.

"This kitten was dumped outside The Rec, and two of its siblings were hit while trying to cross the street," she said. "This one got picked up by one of the people who eats there every day and he brought it inside. No one wanted him, so..."

"Tasha..." he began.

"Yes, we are," she replied, rather definitively.

"I hate cats," Will muttered.

"He has no place to go," Tasha was adamant. "We are keeping him."

"He can go to the pound."

"I've already bought a litter box and food."

"You could have called me, maybe discussed this with me..."

"You would have said no," Tasha replied, not even looking at him. She smiled at the fluffy, orange kitten, who had tiger stripes and white feet.

"I'm STILL saying no," Will replied. "I hate cats!"

"Why do you hate cats?"

"Because they're aloof, they don't fetch, they smell..."

"His name is KC," she remarked. "And look how big his feet are. He's going to be huge..."

"Going to be?"

"He's still a kitten," Tasha replied. "Maybe four or five months old. He'll get much bigger."

Will just shook his head. The day had long passed when he could have ordered her to get rid of the cat.

* * *

**Aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_**, 2364**

"—classifieds," Kendall was explaining. "And this is what I found. They're in Kansas City, in the 21st century. I'm not sure how, but there's no other way that this ad was placed."

Kendall had emerged, flush-faced, from his cabin only 10 minutes earlier and had chimed his neighbors to keep an eye on Sam while he reported to the bridge. He uploaded what he'd found to the ready room's computer.

"Here it is," Kendall said, gesturing to the digital microfiche.

"William Riker, Natasha Yar, _Enterprise_, in Kansas City, 816-555-7471"

Picard nodded. "That cannot be a coincidence," he remarked. "But I'm unfamiliar with the number."

"It's got to be a telephone number," Kendall said. "It's a means to contact them."

The captain nodded. "I'm familiar with telephones, but would not have recognized this as a telephone number. Good work, Lieutenant Kendall. Commander Data?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Prepare a probe to be launched into a time warp, with the capability of leaving a recorded message on this 21st century telephone once it arrives at its destination," Picard said. "The message will be transmitted when contact is made."

"Sir," Data said. "The probe must be able to travel to Earth following the time warp."

"Absolutely, make it so."

* * *

**Pennway Park, Kansas City, Missouri, Earth, November 3, 2008, 1715 hours**

Attempting to keep warm, Tasha rubbed her hands together as she stood on the football field, nearing the end of the first, 20-minute play period. Will was down the field, sizing up the biggest man on the other team, who so far had run roughshod over the flag football team that he and Tasha had joined for the fall season.

_He's having all the fun, and I'm just standing here,_ she thought. _This is almost as bad as being a goalie. _

Intramural sports had become a constant for Will Riggs and Natasha Harris, as they were both known in the 21st century. Tasha still frequented the karate dojo several times each week, Will enjoyed the city basketball leagues and they both went on regular walks. But they both enjoyed getting to play on the same team, and took advantage of every realistic opportunity to do that. They played softball in the summer and flag football in the fall.

Early November was chilly, and Tasha was grateful for the chance to run during the game. It kept her warm. Will rarely had a problem keeping warm. He usually only wore t-shirts even when he could see his breath in the nippy air.

As soon as the referee signaled a break in play, both teams returned to their benches, sipping water and rubbing sore muscles. For the most part, these were "weekend warriors" who worked during the day, mostly sitting at desks, and then were suddenly active after they were released from their cubicles. At half-time, they limped to the metal bleachers, recuperated, checked their messages and chatted with their wives and girlfriends on their cellphones.

"You look cold," Will remarked, sitting down on the bleachers as Tasha huddled beside him.

"I am," she replied. "You're getting more action, and I'm just standing there waiting to run the ball..."

Will smiled, pulling his jacket from beneath the bench. "Here, warm yourself up."

"Thanks," she wrapped the jacket around herself even as he dug into the jacket pocket for his cellphone.

"Hey, got a message," Will remarked.

"I hope it's not someone else wanting to rent a car or do business..." Tasha remarked. When they'd placed the ad in the paper last week, they hadn't counted on the number of phone calls they'd receive from people who mistook "_Enterprise_" for a car rental establishment, or for a great business deal.

Will nodded, beginning to listen to his messages.

"You know, I think if we can get another strong receiver, we'd have a decent chance in the playoffs, this year," Tasha remarked, initially not looking at him. But when he didn't respond, she glanced at him, noting his expression.

"What?" she said, trying to keep her voice low.

He held his hand up, then pushed several buttons on the cellphone. "I just s—the message is saved," he said. "You need to listen to this one. Don't erase it."

"Another nut?"

"Far from it," he said, handing her the phone. His expression was poker-face impassive. "Just listen to it."

"All right," she replied, keying in Will's voicemail code. Afraid her muscles might get too cold before play began again, she stood up and began walking the sidelines as the voicemail loaded up again. Within a few seconds, her pacing came to a sudden stop. The phone still pressed to her ear, she whirled around and looked back at Will, who was smiling broadly.

"Oh my God!" Tasha exclaimed, turning toward Will, nearly dropping the cellphone in the process.

"Don't erase it!" Will replied, still keeping his voice low as he stood to walk toward her.

"I won't," she replied, a smile breaking across her own face as she hit the '9' before terminating voicemail mode.

"It worked," Will said, standing directly in front of her. They'd moved far enough away from the rest of their team that they could talk in hushed tones without being overheard. "A classified ad, of all things. So," Will rested his forearms on her shoulders, his expression bearing a joking tone. "Excited to be going home?"

"Yeah, I'm excited!" she finally replied, then checked the volume of her voice. "So, what do we do, now?"

"Well, right now, we finish this game," Will said. "And then we call Gary, and then tomorrow we place the ad as requested."

Tasha looked up at him, her eyes communicating more than she was capable, in any language, to express.

"Come here," he pulled her into a quick hug, and as the side of his face brushed the side of her weather-chilled skin. "You are cold! At least you won't have to endure another winter, here."

"One more thing to be glad about," she replied against his shoulder. "Thanks for loaning me your coat—"

Someone was standing right beside the two of them, one of their teammates, with an inquisitive expression. "So, you gonna let us in on the happy news?" he remarked.

Will's arm still around Tasha's shoulders, he glanced in her direction, then he looked back at Hal, a middle-aged office manager who was reliving his glory days as a high school football star through intramurals.

"Uh, I got the job!" Will exclaimed, smiling broadly once again.

"He got the job!" Tasha echoed. _Smooth, Will_, she thought.

"Oh yeah?" Hal replied. "Well congratulations! No small feat in this economy."

"Definitely, no small feat," Will remarked.

The message bore Capt. Picard's recorded voice, saying: _"This message is for Commander William Riker and Lt. Natasha Yar. We on the Enterprise received your advertised message, and request your response in the same manner as before, with your Starfleet service numbers and specific date for us to contact you, again. We are planning a rescue mission." _


	18. Chapter 18

**Future's Past, Chapter 18**

* * *

**Aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_**, 2364**

"Any advertisement placed as a result of a successful probe should have appeared in historical documents instantaneously when the probe disappeared, sir," Data replied, only minutes after the communications probe was launched from _Enterprise,_ geared up to intercept crew members who were stranded 350 years in the future.

"They only require a re-upload," Data continued, and the computer beeped in response to Data's query. "Confirmed, there has been another hit on the previous search. It was not present prior to the launch of our contact probe."

"The same message?" Picard replied.

"No, sir," Data responded. "A direct response to our probe. It is here, in the classified advertising section of the _Kansas City Star_ newspaper, appearing two days after the first one appeared."

Picard scanned down the digital image of the screen, past announcements of anniversary celebrations, birthday wishes and one ad that threatened physical harm to "the driver of the red Explorer that cut me off at I-35 and 75th Street exit", then found what he was looking for:

"William Riker, SC-231-427; Natasha Yar, SC-234-184; Gary Tobin, Kimothy Chandler plus two daughters, Gavin Machias plus wife and son, contact same number as before, 30-11-2008, same phone number."

"We now know about deadlines in the 21st century," Picard remarked.

"Sir?" Data turned to look at him as Deanna Troi strode up the bridge to stand beside their captain.

"Newspapers, Mr. Data," Picard said, nodding also to Deanna. "A means of parlaying news and opinions that could be held in one's hands, stocked with advertising and bias. They eventually stopped printing news on paper. By the time newspapers could be produced and printed, often the news was old. It was dated within hours, sometimes within minutes. And since it took so long to piece each issue together, they established deadlines' for its content. I would imagine that's what occurred, here."

"Meaning, the time delay from the first message to this second one, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Data," Picard replied. "In all likelihood, either Commander Riker or Lt. Yar had to go to the newspaper office, fill out a form, pay a fee and wait until the following day for this advertisement to appear."

"Pay with money, you mean," LaForge replied. He had overheard the conversation from his helm post.

"That is correct," Picard said. "This was a capitalistic society. It does make me wonder where they acquired the capital to pay for an advertisement."

"I recall from history classes that money was earned," Deanna interjected. "Could they have earned money in a few days perhaps? In a work venture?"

"It's just as likely that they've been there for more than a few days," Picard said. "Data did mention that while two days may have passed for us, it may well have been longer for them."

"I don't understand," Deanna said.

Data continued. "When they passed into the time-space disturbance, they were transported back to whatever time and place was represented there, most likely in the Holodeck scenarios," he said. "Since we cannot determine which specific program was accessed, we cannot determine the exact date. We only know that they are present in the year 2008."

"They could have been there for years!" Picard exclaimed. "I wonder how long the three _Cheyenne_ crew members have been in the same timeline. Is there a possibility that they ended up in the same place and time?"

"No, sir," Data replied. "None of the programs correspond, either in date or in location. The programs aboard the _Enterprise_ had not even been developed at the time of the Cheyenne incident."

"Are the geologic programs that had been aboard the _Cheyenne_ also aboard _Enterprise_ simulators?" Picard asked.

"Yes, sir," Data replied. "They are standard aboard every science or research-rated vessel with a Holodeck. But since none had been used in our Holodecks as of this date, none have been engaged in the Holodeck's library."

"Mr. Data, please send a coded message to Starfleet command explaining our situation, and requesting that a warning be sent to any vessel entering that sector."

"Yes, sir," Data said.

"In the meantime, we should continue with our plan to retrieve our officers, and perhaps other lost officers, as well," Picard added.

* * *

"Captain, may I confer with you?" Deanna Troi had just been summoned into Picard's ready room, after having chimed in earlier. Picard was at his desk, keying in a request to Starfleet for time travel.

"Certainly, Counselor," he nodded toward the chairs situated in front of his desk. "What are your thoughts on the message we've received?"

"Well, it would be wonderful if we could rescue not only our crew, but three other personnel also lost to time, sir," she replied. "I am concerned, however, about the length of time they have been there, and how they will cope with suddenly returning."

"It's very likely that they will cope with returning better than they may have coped with being sent back in time, without warning, to a place they probably knew little about," Picard said. "Riker and Yar may only have been there for a few days, and who knows how they contacted these three officers."

"It's the other three officers that I am also worried about," Deanna said. "They've been in that timeline long enough to have had children, which tells me that they have, in fact, been there much longer."

"The ad mentioned 'children'," Picard said. "It couldn't have been that much longer."

"It's hard to say," Deanna replied. "Many cultures continue to refer to grown offspring as their children."

"Very true," Picard acknowledged. "Counselor, I would like you to be a member of the rescue team to bring these people back. I also plan to assign Lt. Kendall and Ensign Barajas of security."

"Ensign Barajas, who first reported them missing," Deanna nodded.

"Yes," Picard said. "Ensign O'Brien will be piloting the shuttle and operating the transport console. I'll contact Dr. Crusher to see who she can spare from Sickbay."

"Sir, will the _Enterprise_ be traveling, or will another ship make that trip?"

"Our largest shuttle has warp capability, and easily can timewarp," Picard said. "It will not be able to land, since its stealth layer can avoid routine detection but cannot withstand the heat of entering any planet's atmosphere. That shuttle seats 18 people with room to spare for cargo."

"Yes, sir," Deanna replied.

"With that in mind, I would suggest you coordinate with Lt. Kendall to determine a game plan. Data is preparing another probe that should communicate our intentions to pick them up and return them to their proper time."

"Sir, I would suggest arriving in advance of the scheduled pick-up date," Deanna replied. "This would allow some leeway, and some closure. I want to make sure that if they are traveling back, they will handle the transition as smoothly as possible than if they were just ripped away."

"But if they published a date, and from this advertisement it's nearly a month after the advertisement was published, presumably they know they will be picked up on the date they published," Picard said.

"I still think it's best that we arrive at least one day before, perhaps several," Deanna said. "The only contact they've had from us has been through probes. It may not be so simple for them to explain their specific situations in a small newspaper advertisement."

"Agreed, Counselor," she said.

"Sir, I sense a feeling of . . . I wouldn't describe it as jealousy, but—."

"Oh, it's absolute jealousy, counselor," Picard said, unable to contain a grin. "I'm really rather envious, being able to travel back in time, to a simpler time, when humanity was certain it had an excellent take on how the universe turned. From an anthropological and historical perspective, this should prove a fascinating away mission.

"I do wish I was going along on this mission," he added. "However, besides the responsibility of captaining this ship, I'm acquainted with a certain First Officer and certain Security Chief who are likely to have my head on the Away Team regulation rack if I did, and they would be correct."

* * *

**The Tobin house, Mission, Kansas, November 5, 2008**

By 21st century standards, Gary and Kim Tobin lived frugally. Bling just wasn't their style. They had what they needed: Necessary furniture, clothing, food, needed appliances, a computer, a radio, a laptop computer that everyone shared, a few toys for their children.

They had two vehicles, both of them used, simple, no-frills. Gary and Kim both had cellphones, but elected not to have a home phone: One less bill to pay, one less solicitation demand ringing through at dinnertime.

Even their daughters, who were exposed through 21st century society to incessant advertising, hadn't seemed insistent on acquiring every tempting toy. Gary and Kim were adamant about conditioning Chaney and Piper to be grateful for what they had. Aside from occasional sulking in the candy-laden checkout lane at the grocery, the girls weren't fit-throwers.

Chaney attended public school, and Piper was in a Lutheran church preschool program located just three blocks away from where they lived. Neither of the Tobins was religious, but the program seemed well-rounded and offered an important foundation for Piper, who was more social and gregarious than her older sister, the chance to be around other children. Weekly treats for the girls included books borrowed from the library and the free programs offered through their community's children's center.

Only Will Riker and Natasha Yar know why the Tobins lived "light". Will and Tasha had revealed their true, last names only after discovering they'd all been born three centuries from where they were now stranded. Up until then, Gary Tobin had known them as Will Riggs and Natasha Harris, both aliases they'd found through records searches of deceased individuals so they could obtain social security numbers so they could work.

The Tobins had not purchased their house, knowing ahead of time that they would be leaving the city in a few years. Gary had been leery of the housing market taking a nosedive, and his cautious nature had proven correct. They didn't live in a posh neighborhood by any stretch: Many of their neighbors also rented.

As Kim puttered around the house that sunny, Sunday morning, Gary paused at the kitchen window, peering out over the backyard. He'd knocked down his rent by cleaning up the backyard and paying to have a fence installed. He'd gladly paid for it himself, mostly because he didn't like his neighbors to the west. They owned their house but didn't take care of it, and in the shape it was in, no one would have purchased it.

"You all right?" Kim asked. She had been making a list of the few items they would take with them, should the message that Will and Tasha received prove to be viable. They wouldn't be taking much. But neither of them had told their children, yet. It was too much to explain, right now, especially since nothing was certain, yet.

"I was just thinking about how much I actually will miss this place," Gary remarked. "I'll miss the real food, the beer in bottles, the ancient lawnmower."

"At least I won't need to worry about you electrocuting yourself on power lines while you're trimming tree limbs," Kim remarked. She always insisted on being home when he was hanging off a ladder, for that reason.

"No, I won't miss that, or cleaning leaves out of the gutters," Gary replied.

"I will be the only microbiologist in the 24th century that still has microbiology books," Kim remarked. "I'm taking those back with us. Those'll be museum pieces."

"You know what I also won't miss?" Gary remarked, nodding out the kitchen window. "I won't miss the neighborhood asshole, pissing off his back porch."

Kim abruptly stared outside and was confronted by the sight of their next-door neighbor, standing with his pants unzipped to the world, peeing an arc onto his cluttered, muddy backyard. The three hounds who lived in the yard had virtually destroyed all plant life inside it, and often loosed themselves to the neighborhood by digging holes beneath their back fence.

"Oh, good God," Kim muttered, noticing the can of beer sitting on their neighbor's porch railing and the lit cigarette dangling from his mouth as he stood at the edge of the porch and urinated, seemingly not caring whether anyone else saw him, nor not. "He's starting the day off early."

"Were you here when he blew up his grill?"

"No, when did that happen?"

"Last week," Gary replied. "Wait, it wasn't his grill. It was that homemade smoker, the one he welded himself . . . he tried relighting by pouring gasoline on the smoldering embers. That's why the side of the house has the new black mark on it. I'm just glad our house didn't catch on fire."

"He's an idiot," Kim remarked. "I think I saw him cooking a squirrel on it, one day."

"Oh, you did. He probably scraped it off the road like he did the other one. Said it'd be a shame to waste good roadkill."

"Eww," Kim replied. "What's really sick is that people like him are the ones who'll survive World War III. They won't be loath to go there with what to eat after the food shipments stop. They're already scavengers."

"Given any thought to where we'll end up if we make it back to the 24th century?"

"Our commission isn't up," she replied, her thoughts racing. "We'll need to go where they send us. At some point, we'll need to tell the girls . . . I'll be damned if I know how I'm going to explain that . . .lucky us. We get to have the time space talk and the sex talk."

Gary shook his head. "I don't even want to think about the sex talk."

"Well, we've got a six-year-old," Kim added. "It'll be time before we know it."

"Maybe we can just let her watch the Rayburn hounds screwing each other, and then two months later, there's a litter of puppies running around," Gary remarked, keeping a straight face. "She'd figure it out."

In spite of her knee-jerk "absolutely not" reaction, Kim couldn't help laughing. Gary's deadpan sense of humor was part of his charm, part of what had attracted her to him after months of butting heads after they first arrived. They were complete opposites, she from family based on Luna, and still pressured to be 'more than just a nurse' by her ever-critical mother. He was the first of his southwestern Missouri family ever to leave Earth, and his mother had been so proud, yet scared that her just-enlisted son was going off so far from home.

The third person in their party, Gavin Machias, had tired of their bickering, opting to move to New Brunswick, where he'd grown up and could easily eke out an existence. Gary and Kim finally put their frustration and confusion aside, and found one connection they did share: Being from the same time frame. They didn't understand why they were stuck where they were, but they understood the society they came from. So in a way, they understood each other, and they understood that they had to stay out of the future's way.

But unlike Will Riker and Tasha Yar, they had no chain-of-command rules barring them from pursuing a relationship. She was a nurse with the medical corps, and he was a petty officer specializing in nutrition and food services. It was easy for him to segue into any employment opportunity offered by the dawn of the 21st century. He was only doing a job, like people everywhere and in every time. He restocked newspaper vending machines, patched highways, served beer, became a manager at that same bar.

But Kim had a terrible time. A nurse in the 24th century knew as much as a physician in the 21st, but she had no credentials to back up her training. Still, she wanted to stay in medicine so she got the only job she was "qualified" for: As a "housekeeping associate" in a nearby hospital. As she cleaned toilets and mopped floors, she watched in horror as patients were misdiagnosed, pigeonholed and ignored to death by the overworked and often burned-out nursing staff.

_I can't do this,_ Kim had told Gary multiple mornings after finishing her nightshift. Finally, she transferred to the hospital's lab, and learned how to draw blood from patients using actual needles. It was archaic to Kim, but nonetheless fascinating, to be working in the lab while microbiology was in its infancy. Eventually she was accepted into a microbiology tech training program at a nearby junior college. It was nothing compared to the training she'd had in the 24th century, but it was more satisfying and much less frustrating.

But even after she and Gary were married (at the Jackson County Courthouse with the next couple in line as witnesses), and then began raising a family two years later, they didn't speak much of the time they left behind. Gary knew that Kim didn't miss the achievement pressure from her family, but he missed his family terribly. They had actually visited Joplin one weekend, hoping to see some historical vestige in its prime. But Gary had felt haunted, surrounded by living ghosts he'd learned about in history classes. He never went back to visit, again.

Kim had lost count of the number of times she gazed at the moon, marveling at the desolation of the place where she would be born some 325 years later. Aside from the abandoned equipment from exploration probes and NASA's heralded Apollo missions, there was nothing there, yet. No one had tunneled in, yet. There were no densitometers geared toward balancing the gravitational forces with Earth on the populated moon where she'd grown up. No schoolchildren were bouncing across the powdery landscape in their pressure suits. The Apollo Monuments didn't exist. The gleam of solar panels and landing tethers didn't exist yet, either.

The blank moonscape was disconcerting and almost unrecognizable, but she caught herself gazing skyward on more than one occasion, usually from the middle of her backyard. The lights from the city and pollution haze often muted the moon on nights when prairie thunderstorms didn't block it.

_What are you looking at, Mommy?_ Chaney asked her one evening. She'd wandered outside, dragging her stuffed puppy through the mowed grass even as chiggers and mosquitoes circled.

_Home, _Kim had wanted to say, but didn't. Just looking at the moon, she had replied, bending to pick up her daughter so they could look at the moon together. _I can see the mountains. Can you see them? They look like shadows, the dark spots. Those are the hills and valleys. _

_Do aliens live there? _Chaney had asked, having been informed via Looney Tunes that aliens came from places other than Earth.

_No,_ Kim had replied, not wanting to go into the different species that would live there, eventually, sharing Luna with humans. _It's not nice to say alien, she added. It's offensive. It makes offworlders feel bad._

_Do people live there? _Chaney asked, understanding but not truly comprehending the reason behind what was said.

_Not yet,_ Kim replied, her voice soft amidst the screeching cicadas that announced their presence every late summer evening. _People used to go there to visit. Someday, people will go to live there. But. . .it'll be awhile._

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, November 5, 2008**

"Will?" Tasha said, a cup of tea steaming in her hands as she sat on the couch, the Sunday paper spread out in front of her. The advertisements within it already had been cut to shreds, and clipped coupons were stacked neatly on the corner of their "coffee table". More than a year earlier, they had raided the plywood and crates from a trash pile several blocks away and arranged them to make a crude, coffee table. Will shelved his books in the upturned crates.

"Yeah?" he replied, not even glancing in her direction from where he stood in the nearby kitchen alcove, only two meters away. Morning sunlight shone through the window, illuminating the vegetables he was expertly mincing on a cutting board he'd balanced across the sink. Jalapeno peppers, tomatoes, red onions...salsa, maybe? she thought.

She was going to miss his cooking. He'd really come into his own, trying out recipes that neither had heard of in the 24th century. He'd saved literally hundreds of recipes in "modern" cookbooks that had been lost to history. If the ingredients weren't too expensive and readily available, he'd try them out.

Tasha usually ate whatever was put in front of her, so she appreciated anything she hadn't made herself. She wasn't a very good cook, at all. Only yesterday, she'd made Will visibly gag with her idea of a great breakfast: Sardines and shredded lettuce, topped with mustard and wrapped in a tortilla.

_I think you've out-grossed yourself,_ he had remarked. _That smells awful!_

_And I figured you'd be so proud,_ she came back. _I've even gone gourmet. This is Dijon mustard._

Today, she hadn't been hungry, her thoughts instead a tumultuous combination of excitement at a possible rescue, tempered by twinges of regret and worry for the people who would be left behind. The Tobins, she knew, would be coming with her and Will if a rescue party did arrive. Gavin Machias, the other Cheyenne crew member, had been non-committal so far on returning.

"Ever wondered what's going to happen to all these people we've gotten to know?" she said, walking with cup in hand toward the stove and standing with one hip against the adjacent counter. "We should look them up when we get back, to see what became of them, how they did."

"Presumably they won't be around when we arrive back in our own century," Will replied.

"Well, no," she replied, not trying to disguise her irritation at his flippant remark. She was going to need to work on curbing her smartass attitude once she got back aboard the _Enterprise_. "So, are you going to keep cooking once we get back?"

He shrugged. "I probably won't have much time."

"You said it yourself. Everyone needs hobbies."

"Speak for yourself," he replied. "You need a hobby."

"Karate and Krav Maga," she said. "I've very much enjoyed learning those disciplines while I've been here."

"Really?"

"Yeah," she replied. "And I like teaching Aikido to the kids at the Rec. That was fun."

"What about a hobby that doesn't revolve around beating people up? Even your job here occasionally means beating people up."

"Well, I rarely get to beat people up at the 43rd," she replied. "Mostly I just sit on them until the cops show up. If I'd beat them up, I would have been the one who was arrested, and then I'd have been fired."

"Yeah, and that would have been a bad thing."

"A very bad thing," she agreed.

"You ever consider how absolutely lucky we are to have found Gary and Kim?"

"Every day," she replied.

"No, really," he said, pausing to look at her. "If you hadn't gotten that job, you most likely wouldn't have met. If you hadn't been sprayed in the face with blood, you wouldn't have wound up at Swope Park clinic, had your blood drawn, alerted the lab worker—who happened to be Gary's wife—that you had inoculation-based antibodies that weren't developed, yet."

She nodded.

"Well, I don't know what I did to help us get home," Will said. "I've had the easiest time of it, between the two of us."

"You had the burns on your hands and arms," she replied, recalling those awful days not too long ago. "I'd say you had the worst time."

"That was a bad experience," Will agreed, finishing with the dicing and expertly using the knife to scrape the diced peppers into a waiting bowl.. "But overall, I'd have to say that it wasn't all horrible. I got paid to hear the best music in the universe. I'd say I had it easy."

"Remember how I got that job at the 43rd?" Tasha remarked.

"Yeah, Gary hired you," Will said. "Didn't you beat someone up for it?"

"I got jumped by a man while I was out buying a newspaper. Gary stopped as he was driving past enroute to begin inventory that morning," she replied. "That's why he was there so early in the morning. He saw me getting jumped by someone and stopped to help, waited with me for the police, and told me he needed wait staff that could handle rowdy customers. I got the job because I beat someone up. So, it's a good hobby for me."

"If you say so," Will replied. "I'm making quesadillas. You in?"

"Absolutely, I'm in," she said. "Those are great."

"I remember when you used to hate cheese," he added.

"Not when you're cooking," she remarked, smiling.

* * *

**Journal kept by Natasha Yar**

_Will often tells me that if a rescue doesn't happen, he's moving back to Alaska. He's told me so much about it, the terrain, the people, the isolation that will shelter that area from fallout, and the frontier lifestyle that will sustain those people during the Post Atomic Horror. _

_So he wants to go back there. He keeps asking me where I'd want to go. I suppose I could go to Ivano-Frankovsk, but I know it will be swept up in the riots and that the fallout will be deadly from nuclear strikes in Western Europe. So I've been hedging, because I honestly don't know where I'd go. My "home" options are far more limited than his are._

_Will loves and misses his home region of Alaska. But I feel no longing at all for the planet where I was born, which sounds almost traitorous, to turn one's back on one's homeworld. But I don't feel compelled at all to return. And I'm not sorry._


	19. Chapter 19

**Future's Past, Chapter 19**

* * *

**USS **_**Enterprise**_** Shuttlecraft Alpha-S, late November, 2008**

Still a bit disoriented from the slingshot effect of time travel, Deanna Troi sensed the same from others aboard the shuttle. It was a foggy feeling...not painful or uncomfortable, but a bit like being intoxicated.

Ensign Miles O'Brien had just completed a helm tour aboard the _Enterprise_ but had a keen interest in transport mechanics and was highly rated in that field, as well. He had piloted the shuttle through the time warp. Now he would be in charge of transport operations, and then returning them (and their passengers) safety back to the 24th century.

The remainder of the rescue crew had recovered their senses within a minute or two: Lt. Louden Kendall already was calculating their actual date of arrival and mapping their destination. Ensign Julio Barajas had coordinated communication devices that would operate cleanly from behind the moon, and had planned security contingencies should any of them be detained by 21st century authorities.

Also on the rescue team was nurse specialist Ensign Suravi Bhat. Young but outwardly calm, Bhat also possessed a practitioner rating that qualified her to function on her own without needing to consult a physician. Dr. Beverly Crusher assigned her to the mission as the medical technician, with standing orders to do what was necessary to assess their team and the stranded crewmembers, and attend to their needs during the mission.

"Is everyone all right?" Bhat asked, her perfect Standard enriched by a Hindi accent. "Roll call with status."

One by one, each passenger responded, and then they continued on with all they needed to accomplish. They were two light years away from Earth's solar system, directly inferior to the orbit path so they wouldn't need to traverse the larger chunks of the asteroid belt.

"It is strange to be so close to Earth, and not see any other ships even on sensors," Barajas mused.

"You got that right," O'Brien replied. "It'll be even stranger to be orbiting Earth and not need to worry about multiple ships or Spacedock. As long as we stay on the other side of any manned space programs also orbiting, we should be all right."

They both focused more on their work, but in the back of their minds they knew how important it was that they not mess this one up. Aside from Counselor Troi (an offworlder whose late father was born on Earth), everyone aboard had strong ties to humanity's homeworld. Lt. Kendall would be traveling to the very city where his own family had lived for multiple generations, a prospect that both excited and scared him.

Bhat was from India, where her parents and several younger siblings still lived in her family's hometown of Kanpur. Having heard stories of discrimination and poverty experienced by her own family in generations past, she had little desire to visit 21st century India.

Nor did Barajas care to see his own family's multi-generational home of Acapulco, Mexico. Barajas had privately researched his home city's status in the 21st century before leaving on the mission, and learned that crime was rampant and poverty was extreme. He just didn't want to see that.

But Miles O'Brien, who had been born and raised in a small community in Northern Ireland, would have loved to visit old Belfast. The coastal shipping city was located around 50 kilometers away from where he'd grown up. O'Brien had visited the old shipyards there, but the 24th century Belfast yards were more steeped in museum-grade display than in working order when he saw them as a youngster. Most "traditional" shipyards had been closed in favor of other, often more land-locked facilities manufacturing ships that would travel in space. He had always been intrigued by the stories he'd heard from older relatives, and wanted to visit those working docks where multiple generations of his family built waterships in the Belfast shipyards. . . and spent far too much time in the pubs.

* * *

Within 30 minutes, they were orbiting Earth in a silent running mode. The stealth covering on the shuttle would prevent detection from traditional radar sweeps or visual contact from Earth, but the ship could be seen from anything else in orbit. Scanners immediately picked up the International Space Station and the United States' Space Shuttle _Endeavor,_ which was docked to the station as it orbited. O'Brien was careful to orbit the _Enterprise'_s shuttle exactly 180 degrees from that, and several hundred meters higher in altitude, also. The stealth configurations would keep them hidden, as long as they orbited at an angle that was perpendicular.

Troi made the first contact, via a telecommunications satellite that was hacked into by Ensign Barajas. Then, she literally placed a phone call, but initially didn't recognize the sounds she was hearing: A staccato ringing tone.

"I think something's wrong," she said after two rings. She'd never heard those noises before, and assumed they were indicative of a malfunction.

"No, it's going through," Lt. Kendall interrupted. "I recognize it from old recordings...it's a telephone ring tone.

There was a click on the other end of the phone, a series of noises—music, Troi thought. And then a clear voice louder than the other noise, clearly that of William Riker. She recognized it immediately.

"Commander Riker?" she stated.

There was a slight pause on the other end. "Yes! This is Commander Riker," he said.

"Sir, this is Counselor Deanna Troi of the USS _Enterprise_," she replied, knowing he probably recognized her voice as readily as she had recognized his. Still, she made the formal introduction. "Are you where you can speak freely?"

"Deanna," Riker replied. "Yes, I'm in an apartment. I'm alone. Go ahead."

Troi explained the mission, the stealth shuttlecraft, the crew compliment and that they had just arrived to orbit the Earth. They had transporter capability (albeit two people at a time), and were prepared to stay for several days.

"Let's continue this conversation in person, then," Will said. "Are you able to lock on to my signal?"

"We are," Troi replied. "Lt. Louden Kendall and I will be beaming down to those coordinates."

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, November 25, 2008**

Four minutes later, Troi and Kendall beamed directly into the apartment's main room. They heard their surroundings before they actually saw them: Music was playing in the background. When they'd finished materializing, they glanced around at the spartan furnishings including a couch, several chairs and two tables.

A plastic-covered book entitled _Outliers_ rested open and inside down on the couch, and Kendall inwardly cringed that the spine of the book could be damaged. It appeared to have been hurriedly tossed aside by the man standing next to that couch, and initially Kendall didn't recognize him.

"Hello!" Will said, a smile breaking through his bearded face, and it was all he could do to keep from enveloping her into a warm hug. He sent warm thoughts in her direction, instead, and her expression bore out that she understood him perfectly. "Welcome to the 21st century."

"Commander!" Troi nodded, noting his beard and a tanned face bearing evidence that Riker spent regular time outside in the sun. It was evident that he had been in his present location far longer than the few days he had been missing from the _Enterprise_. "We're relieved to see you, sir," she said, doing her best to disguise her surprise at his appearance.

"Lt. Kendall," Will nodded in his direction, then extended his hand for a firm handshake. "I'm glad you're on the Away Team. I understand history is your specialty. You'll be in your element, here."

"Yes, sir," Kendall replied. "I, uh, had an unwitting hand in your destination."

"How so?" Will began, grabbing the book he'd left on the couch and placing it on the makeshift coffee table, then nodding at both officers to sit down. "Please, sit down, make yourselves at home."

After his guests had sat on the couch, he sat on of the chairs he'd pulled from the kitchen.

"From what Lt. Commander Data determined, the _Enterprise_ passed through a temporal displacement approximately four days ago—," Kendall began.

"Wait," Will interrupted. "Four days?"

"Yes, sir," Kendall said.

"It's been more than twenty months for Tasha and I," Will remarked. "Wow."

Deanna's brow furrowed. "Twenty months?" she exclaimed, forgetting that she was also confused by the 'wow' expression he'd added to his statement. "You and Lt. Yar have been here in this century for 20 months?"

"Yes, we have," Will replied. "But if we passed through a temporal displacement nowhere near this system or time, how did we wind up back on Earth?"

"According to ship's records, you and Lt. Yar were walking in the corridor just adjacent to the Holodecks," Kendall continued. "At that very instant, the ship passed through the temporal rift, and somehow—we don't know how, yet, Lt. Com. Data's still working on that—the rift tapped into a Holodeck program that was installed in the deck immediately next to where both of you were standing. As far as we know, you were the only ones in the corridor."

"What was the program?"

"I programmed multiple scenarios for students to experience capitalism and society from the 20th, 21st and 22nd centuries in Kansas City," Kendall said. "The programs were easy for me to develop because I'm familiar with Kansas City. I wanted it to be real and accessible without being too easy for them."

"Oh, it wasn't easy."

"How did you . . . arrive?" Troi asked.

Will let out a long breath. "In the middle of the night, middle of the rain, in March, 2007, just outside of Union Station near downtown Kansas City," he said.

Kendall immediately nodded. "I programmed several scenarios involving Union Station," he said.

"Including the rain?" Will added.

"No rain, just the parking lot full of operational vehicles, Union Station, buses, cabs . . . you materialized in a rain shower?"

"Yes, and about one meter above the sidewalk," Will remarked. "Seems like it happened a long time ago, by now . . . much longer for the crew members from the _Cheyenne_."

"How long in this time frame have they been here?" Troi asked.

"Well, they arrived a little more than 10 years ago, but they arrived in the middle of nowhere, really: A field near the Mississippi River in western Tennessee. Two of them are married to each other, so that simplifies things somewhat," Will added. "They've got quite a story, themselves."

"I'd bet they do," Kendall replied.

"Ten years is a long time to be waiting," Deanna finally said.

"Well, we've been living in the meantime," Will said. "Timeframe-wise, what is your departure goal?"

"That's up to you, and what is best for attracting as little attention to your departure," Deanna replied. "We had understood the date to be November 30."

"Yes, it was. We hadn't made any definitive plans, though, because we weren't certain whether it would be a 'go' on the 30th. It's not as easy to start over here as it is to slip away."

"So, you'll be ready on the 30th?"

"That was a contingency," Will said. "The Tobins are ready to go whenever, and since tomorrow begins a holiday weekend, it should be easier to disappear with fewer repercussions. I don't know about Gavin Machias. Gary's been in touch with him."

"I'm thankful that I'd done thesis research using old newspaper stories and advertising," Kendall remarked. "That was how I knew to search those records."

"We're glad you did," Will said. "We had no idea what had happened. We thought at first it was a joke, and then that it was a teambuilding exercise. And then after several weeks had passed, we knew we needed to establish an income and a home base. Our single combadge is dead—we don't know what happened to Tasha's—at least we had a phaser, but we used it sparingly to keep its power supply."

"Lt. Yar's combadge was found in the _Enterprise_ corridor," Troi said. "That was our only physical clue that something could have happened there. The rest we deduced from coincidence. We were fairly certain that the temporal disturbance and the holodeck program might be linked, but we didn't know for certain until we researched what had happened to the _Cheyenne_, and discovered a similar issue."

"Do you know why the _Cheyenne_ crew ended up landing where they did, near the Mississippi River?"

"I can only suppose it had to do with one of the geology programs installed in the _Cheyenne_'s Holodeck at the time of their disappearance. That area is seismically active."

Will nodded. "Gary said part of the reason he wanted to stay in Kansas City was because of that seismic activity. He remembered reading about it getting worse in the 21st century."

Kendall smiled. "He remembered his history. He's correct."

"What happened on the _Enterprise_ and the _Cheyenne_," Will began. "Were those the only incidents?"

"Those were the only incidents that had been reported," Kendall replied. "Once we correlated them, that was when we began running searches, but our initial searches through various databases across two centuries yielded nothing with your names. The only search hit we received was through the classified announcement search in the local newspapers."

"We're living under aliases," Riker replied. "We've adopted the names and identification numbers of two people who were deceased 20 years ago, from now, in San Francisco. We knew we needed convincing identities, and since everything here is cross-referenced, we needed to adopt new last names. We spent a lot of time in the public library."

* * *

As they chatted briefly in Will's apartment, Troi felt the creature's presence before she saw it. Troi could feel a sensation of curiosity, tempered by caution, from something nearby.

"Commander," Troi said, her attention having been drawn to the orange kitten tiptoeing into the main room from an adjacent room. Will didn't like cats, at all, and yet one was unquestionably sharing his living space. "You have a cat."

"No, actually, Tasha has a cat," Will said, nodding in the cat's direction. "The cat and I have an understanding."

"I thought you didn't like cats," Troi remarked.

"I've become more tolerant of cats," Will replied. "Tasha brought it home—someone dumped some kittens at the homeless shelter where she volunteers, and the next thing I knew it was living in our apartment."

"Does it have a name?" Troi lowered her hand toward the cat that readily approached to check out the new visitors. Deanna could feel an inquisitive, yet still juvenile nature in the animal, who also didn't feel to be as old as it appeared. It seemed to be a full-grown cat.

"His name's KC," Will replied. "He's probably six months old."

"He looks too big to be a kitten," Deanna said, and KC jumped onto the couch between her and Lt. Kendall.

"He's a Maine Coon," Kendall said. "A large breed of cat. We had them when I was growing up. If he's only six months old, he'll get even bigger than this."

"The way he eats, I'm not surprised," Will remarked. "I thought a cat was a cat."

"Large feet, tufts of fur coming out of his ears and between his toes, and look at this ruff around his neck and chest," Kendall said as the cat rolled over to have his belly rubbed, purring in delight. "Maine Coons were one of the few breeds to survive World War III. They adapted well to being outdoors and proved to be excellent hunters, keeping mice out of the grain bins. Many of the more delicate breeds died out."

"Where is Lt. Yar?" Troi asked. "And what about the others mentioned in the announcement?"

"Tash—Lt. Yar is at work," Will said. "We both have jobs, here. I work at a jazz club not too far from where Tasha and Gary work, although I'm not scheduled to work, tonight. And I must apologize for the informality. Addressing each other by rank or designation was attracting too much attention from people here in the 21st century, and they were asking too many questions. Tasha and I are on a first-name basis, and I might suggest the same for the Away Team, as well."

"Informality is not a bad thing in the right environment," Troi remarked, unable to keep a broad smile from spreading across her face. Informality sounded nice, for a change. "And you're working in a jazz club."

"Most of the time, it's the best job in this world," Will said. "I get paid to listen to great music, seat the movers and shakers of the city, and serve some of the best food in town. And, I've also learned how to cook it. What could be better? If you're stuck somewhere, you might as well find a job you'll enjoy."

"And what kind of work does Lt. Yar do, here?"

"Well, she works at a bar," Will replied. "She waits tables and tosses people out when they get too unruly. And here's the irony. She was hired because a bar and grille manager saw her subduing a mugger on the street. And that manager turned out to be Gary Tobin. Talk about luck."

"How did you know who he really was?" Kendall asked.

"Another story for another time," Will replied, and although Deanna could sense within him the convoluted nature of that story, she couldn't ascertain specifics. "Suffice it to say that bad luck led to good luck, led to back luck, and back to good luck again. Everything came full circle."

_Will Riker and Natasha Yar living together,_ Troi mused, though she sensed nothing romantic from Will when he spoke of Lt. Yar. _That's interesting,_ she thought. "You mentioned Lt. Yar volunteered at a homeless shelter?"

"Yes, at the same place we stayed when we first arrived here," Will said. "She also helps teach at a martial arts dojo just up the street. She's really acclimated well, just caught and ran with what was thrown at her—oh, and we both play intramural sports, too. We were playing flag football when your first message came through on my cellphone."

"You were around other people when you got the message?" Troi said.

"Yeah," Will smiled at the memory of how he and Tasha had fudged their way through having a teammate minding their business. "And we told people that we were so happy because I'd gotten a job in another city."

Lt. Kendall nodded. "I read that it was relatively commonplace in this century for families to move for employment."

"If they can find employment," Will remarked. "We're in the middle of an economic recession. We're all lucky to have the jobs we have. When we leave, hopefully we won't change history too much by leaving four positions open for others who need them. Speaking of assignments, does anyone else need to beam down?"

"Ensign Julio Barajas and Medical Ensign Suravi Bhat are on standby," Troi replied. "But they knew it might be awhile until we determined what your status was. We didn't know if everyone was located in the same place, or if you all lived apart."

"The Tobins live in a suburb nearby," Will replied. "I'd be willing to bet that Gary probably is working at the bar, tonight, and I know Kim is at work until late this afternoon. She works in a community clinic in the laboratory. They have two, young children, and they have decided not to tell them, for the time being, what's going on."

"To avoid the possibility that one of them might share that news, and create considerable trouble," Troi verbalized what she'd sensed. "Very good idea."

"I thought so, too," Will remarked.

"Is this a radio, sir?" Kendall asked, nodding toward the small box sitting atop the nearby kitchen counter. Contemporary jazz floated from the radio and into the apartment.

"It is," Will replied. "One of the few local stations that plays jazz from time to time."

"I thought Kansas City was a jazz town," Kendall remarked.

"Oh, it is," Will replied. "But if jazz is playing on the radio, fewer people will go to the clubs to hear it. So there are no stations that play it regularly. If they did, they'd never be able to get advertising."

"Ah, the advertising economy," Kendall nodded. Troi also nodded and smiled, but had no idea what Will was talking about.

* * *

"Shuttle to Away Team," Miles O'Brien's voice interrupted, crackling over Troi's combadge.

"Troi here," Deanna replied.

"We've been struck by orbital debris and have sustained engine damage," O'Brien said.

"How bad?" she asked, even as Will's facial expression went from laid-back to commanding in an instant. He reached toward her, holding his palm up in hopes she'd hand him the combadge.

"Damage to the aft and stern, our impulse retros are functional but I've got caution and warning lights all over the place," O'Brien replied.

"Riker to O'Brien," Will keyed the combadge. Even after only 20 months, the object felt somewhat strangely familiar in his hand, yet awkward. He hadn't held his own, dead communicator since he stashed it in a box in the bedroom, along with the phaser, now dead for lack of a charger.

"Yes, sir," O'Brien's voice bore a more upbeat tone, now that he knew both members of the Away

Team had successfully located at least one of those who had been missing.

"What's your flight status, at this point?"

"Pitch and yaw are intact, gravity's intact, maneuverability, it's all there, but I'm specifically worried about the retros," O'Brien said. "They seem to have sustained some damage. There's so much debris up here that we'll be in danger as long as we maintain this orbit, sir."

"Go ahead and raise your orbit until you're clear of the debris," Will said. "Can you repair the damage?"

"I need to see the extent of the damage," O'Brien replied, adjusting the impulse engines to gently push away from Earth's gravity while testing the impulse retros to make sure he could stop at impulse. "Raising orbital position. Confirmed impulse retros are functional. We have tools for repair, but if I need materials we may be here for awhile, sir. Most materials for a stealth shuttle are hard to get even in the 24th century."

"Your shuttle can't travel through the atmosphere," Riker said.

"That's correct, sir," O'Brien said. "But we can land on the moon and repair it there."

"You have suits?"

"Yes, sir," O'Brien said.

"All right, maneuver the shuttle above all debris fields but out of sight of the International Space Station," Will replied.

"Raising my orbit altitude now, remaining 180 degrees opposite the International Space Station."

"All right," Will said. "Contact me again once you've established an orbit, Riker out."

Will turned to his two visitors. "I'd like to beam up and assess the situation," he said. "Would you be comfortable remaining here until I can beam back down?"

"Absolutely," Kendall replied, and Troi nodded, though she wasn't as certain.

"All right, as we say in the 21st century, here's the deal," Will said. "I'm William Riggs, and Tasha is Natasha Harris. So if anyone comes by—like our landlord, that's who he's looking for."

* * *

**Aboard the Stealth Shuttle, in orbit around Earth**

Gradually, to avoid attracting attention from any Earth sensors that might be sophisticated enough to detect an impulse orbital elevation thrust, Ensign O'Brien gradually raised the shuttle's orbit while maintaining an exact, 180-degree orbit from the International Space Station.

"How high can we go before we lose orbit?" Bhat remarked.

"We can safety go just past the moon's orbit and still remain in the gravitational pull," O'Brien replied. "But then we'd be out of transporter range."

"This is when I wished I knew more about engines and propulsion," Bhat remarked. "I want to help as much as I can without being in the way."

"And I wish I knew how to fix people," O'Brien replied. "But I can barely stand the sight of my own blood, let alone anyone else's."

Bhat smiled. "You have a good point."

* * *

**In Will and Tasha's apartment, Kansas City, Missouri, on Earth**

"Uh...there's food in the refrigerator and in the cabinets," Will continued, walking Lt. Kendall and Counselor Troi through the small apartment that had housed him and Tasha Yar for the past 20 months. He didn't feel like a very good host, bailing on his guests without at least introducing them to the ancient gadgets they'd need to know about.

But if they didn't fix the modern gadget orbiting above, they'd all be stranded for the rest of their life.

"I cook a lot and we've got some leftovers from some spaghetti I made two nights ago," he added. He didn't figure they'd be eating anything, but he didn't want to take any chances. "We've been paring down the pantry because we figured we'd be leaving, but we didn't want to start giving our stuff to people until we knew we were leaving, so if anyone's hungry...have whatever looks appetizing.

"Pots and pans are in this cabinet—," Will continued, opening a cabinet so they could see the small collection of skillets and pans that they'd accumulated. "Uh, this is black currant tea that Tasha really likes, and the cups are up here..."

Thank goodness, Troi thought. Good tea. At least something is familiar.

"—teapot is here, and you'll need to fill it with water from the kitchen sink, which again is manual, and you turn it on like this..."

Will led them through the small bedroom to the bathroom, and both officers immediately noted that there were two beds, and not one, in the bedroom.

"—bedroom, bathroom...oh, and if anyone needs to use the facilities here on Earth, they are manual, water-flush toilets," he said. "It's pretty self-explanatory except for this manual handle. Push down. Tasha just repaired ours: The chain inside the tank had rusted but she replaced it, so at least we don't need to jiggle the handle anymore after it flushes. Also, we have manual sinks and a manual shower.

"All the clothing here is wash and wear again, no recyclables. If you're going to be here for two weeks, you'll need more than one change of clothes, and there's a used clothing store just up the street that has dressed us for the past 20 months. Oh, and if we wind up being here longer, you should go Friday to the thrift shop because you'll get 50 percent off...does anyone have any money?"

They shook their heads.

"I didn't think so," Will said, digging into his pants pocket for a small folded wallet. "I don't expect to be gone more than 30 minutes, but in case I'm held up by any other unforeseen event..." he handed Deanna several folded bills. " Here's $27 to tide you over should anything happen and you need it. Believe me, that beats burglarizing vending machines."

He left behind his cellphone and instructions how to operate it, and how to access phone numbers for the Tobins, and for Tasha.

"Shuttle to Commander Riker," O'Brien radioed.

"Riker, go ahead."

"We're ready to beam you up, sir."

"Stand by," he replied, then turned to Kendall and Troi. "I will check in within 20 minutes."

"Yes, sir," Troi replied. "We'll be fine."

"There are books, music...uh, you might be horrified by Tasha's taste in music, but I've got plenty of jazz CDs—,"

"We'll be fine, sir," Troi reiterated. "You've already done all the hard work for us."

"All right," Will replied, then tapped the combadge again. "Riker to shuttle, energize."

For the first time in 20 months, Will Riker dematerialized into space.


	20. Chapter 20

**Future's Past 20**

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, Kansas City, Missouri, Earth, Nov. 25, 2008**

_USS Enterprise_ Counselor Deanna Troi and Lt. Louden Kendall had spent an interesting half-hour in an apartment while Riker beamed up to the shuttle to check out damage from the debris strike. Even though he was one of the individuals on the list to rescue, he was the ranking officer and therefore needed to know the condition of the ship. So, he beamed up and left her and Kendall in the apartment he'd shared for 22 months with Lt. Natasha Yar, who had been yanked back in time with him.

Kendall didn't snoop: He fiddled. He opened the oven, eyed the electric heating pipes snaking inside the oven's base and top, looked at labels on items he found inside an appliance apparently designed to keep food either cold or frozen. He found one of the newspapers—a real one, stacked with others beside the couch, and read it gingerly at first, learning how to turn the pages so they didn't bind up or wrinkle.

Troi was more deliberate. She toured the small apartment, gleaning what she could from how Will Riker and Tasha Yar were living. Separate beds, same bedroom. It was a roommate arrangement. Though both beds were made, belongings were more haphazardly scattered on one side of the room than on the other. _Interesting,_ she thought.

She found a wire-bound notebook that had been left out on the low-set table in front of the coffee table and thumbed through it.

"Lt. Kendall," she remarked. "This might be of interest to you. It looks like an experience-based guide to some of the slang terms they were exposed to while they were here."

He nodded. "Sure it's all right for us to be looking at this?"

"I have a feeling Will left it here for a reason," she replied, glancing at some of the entries, written in longhand by both Riker and Yar. Her eyes widened as she read further. "Some of these are not quite appropriate for your elementary schoolchildren, however."

"Most of the slang of the time tended toward the profane," he remarked, standing beside Troi so he could read that first page. "Hmm . . . yes, I believe that a good number of these would be inappropriate for that age group. I knew it was bad, so this doesn't surprise me."

"This one has a question mark beside it," Troi said. "As if the phrase was heard but never defined. To 'drop a deuce'. Any idea what that means?"

He shook his head. "That's a new one for me," Kendall replied. "I'd be willing to bet that a good number of these will be new for me. Well, I recognize this one, 'dropping an f-bomb'."

"Well, even I know what that means," Troi remarked. "Deuces must be different."

"Maybe, maybe not."

* * *

Leaving Kendall to peruse the notebook and the newspaper, Troi went into the bedroom so she could peer out the window to the street below. She wondered how on this world people were able to park their vehicles end-to-end. The drivers couldn't have arrived at the same time so they could park in a neat line, and surely those vehicles weren't sophisticated enough to hover from above into such small places.

As she watched, a motorist slowed beside an empty space and then edged neatly into it; backing up, then moving forward, then back again. Within a minute, the vehicle was successfully parked in the tiny space.

"How did they do that?" she muttered as the driver got out of the vehicle. Two small children bailed out of the car's back doors and tagged behind the driver, an exhausted-appearing woman that evidently was their mother. Troi could hear them arguing with each other as they walked up the stairs adjacent to the apartment, and could feel the frustration building within the mother as she coarsely told them to 'shut up'.

KC the cat had followed the counselor everywhere she went. Deanna finally sat on one of the beds—Will's, and patted the mattress beside her. The cat jumped up onto the smoothed-out linens and rolled onto his back, beginning to purr contentedly as he allowed his new, empathic friend to scratch his chin and rub his furry belly.

Deanna was still playing with the cat when Will beamed back down, and delivered the news: Not only were the warp retros damaged, but the synthesizer that would have provided materials and food also was damaged, so that would need to be beamed up, too.

This was going to be a longer Away mission than anyone had anticipated. Fortunately, this group of Starfleet officers would have the relative luxury of having historically seasoned guides to help them through their lengthened visit. They only had one change of clothing, and since the synthesizer was damaged, they'd need to acquire more clothes on Earth.

Will seemed to have an answer for that, as well. He knew this place well enough that in addition to knowing where to get clothing, he knew where to get the best "deals". He knew where "things are half-off" and he had "coupons". Kendall seemed to know what Com. Riker was talking about. Troi nodded without really comprehending, although she could feel from Riker's reaction that he'd explain it all to her, once they regrouped.

Bhat beamed down within minutes, and now they were walking toward Lt. Yar's workplace, where another of the Starfleet officers, a _Cheyenne_ officer named Gary Tobin, also happened to work. Deanna was looking forward to seeing them both, but still felt out of her element.

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, Nov. 25, 2008, 2030 hours**

Deanna was used to 'tuning out' people. She'd done it most of her life, especially around the seemingly shiftless human race, whose moods changed on a whim. But as a half-human herself, much of their human drama made sense.

Most of the time . . . but not today. They were walking at dusk alongside a busy street.

Commander Will Riker was walking ahead of her and Kendall. Will was sure of himself as usual, though quieter, more tempered by something Troi couldn't quite explain, yet. Kendall was enjoying himself, excited, fascinated by being in his ancestral home, and yet inwardly nervous about what he might discover now that he was actually here.

Even from one block away, pedestrians heading toward the 43d Street Bar & Grille could hear that the place was hopping for a Tuesday night. The Westport watering hole catered to the music-loving, sports-watching, working crowd, and was relatively busy before the American holiday of Thanksgiving. Most of the patrons were regulars, who were tossing back one last brew before being stuck with their families for five days.

Having traveled three centuries into the past on a rescue mission, Kendall smiled a bit as he walked downhill, navigating a crumbling, pavement sidewalk. Kendall was an elementary and secondary professor aboard the USS _Enterprise_, and it was his penchant for history that brought him—and five other _Enterprise_ crewmembers—to Kansas City in the early 21st century. A Holodeck program that he'd developed with the intent to teach through living example had been triggered when the _Enterprise_ passed through a temporal rift. Two senior staff members walking near the Holodeck had found themselves unexpectedly flung back in time, stranded in one of Kendall's Holodeck timeframes, only they weren't in the holodeck.

"Quite a homecoming, isn't it, lieutenant?" remarked Counselor Deanna Troi, who was walking beside him.

He nodded. "Yes, it is," he replied. "Only I don't recognize anything, and it smells worse than it does in our century."

Kendall, Troi and Medical Ensign Suravi Bhat meandered on foot through a Kansas City neighborhood with one of those lost crewmembers, fellow _Enterprise_ Com. William Riker. Two others in the rescue party, Ensigns Miles O'Brien and Julio Barajas, remained aboard the stealth shuttle in high orbit over Earth.

The November air had a bite to it, but fortunately Kendall and Troi had brought coats with them for the eventuality of late fall's usual, chilly weather. He was thankful to have recommended it.

And now they were accompanying Riker . . . to a bar.

Even if Will Riker was living out of his own time, he certainly didn't show it. He nodded toward features that he felt they needed to know about: The stoplights hanging from wires strung over every street, signs that denoted places where they could 'catch a bus'. Since the entire Away Team was going to be here much longer than they'd anticipated, Riker knew they'd need to familiarize themselves with their new surroundings.

Kendall and Troi had just spent the last 30 minutes in Riker's apartment while he beamed up to check damage to the _Enterprise_ shuttle that was orbiting Earth. At the dawn of the 21st century, thousands of pounds of junk orbited at different altitudes, and one fragment had taken out the shuttle's retro thrusters, and also had damaged the synthesizer unit.

So their return would need to wait until they could fix the retro with whatever materials could be salvaged from Earth. As worrisome as it might have been, Kendall was somewhat excited about the prospect.

* * *

**43rd Place Bar and Grille, 2045 hours**

The upbeat, live band was belting upbeat tunes into the rafters of the aging building, and Deanna could feel Will's anticipation as he approached the club with his somewhat unnerved companions.

Will met someone at the door, slipped a wad of what appeared to be money into his hands. The man then slipped it surreptitiously into his pocket, and just as quickly, the entire group was inside the bar, which sounded much smaller than it had outside. Music was playing on the loudspeakers, and Will noticed Bhat's shoulders creeping upward in an involuntary expression of discomfort. She wasn't used to the loud music.

"If you think this is loud, just wait until the band fires up," Will explained, nodding to the stage where two men were setting equipment up for a play set that would begin within a couple of hours. "When they do, we won't be able to have a conversation."

"Hey, Will!" Gary called out from his perch near the bar. "You missed all the excitement."

"Where's Tasha?" Will asked, looking around.

Gary smiled, nodding 'hello' to Kendall, Troi and Bhat before offering an explanation. "Tasha just busted two guys selling drugs in the bathroom, and instead of leaving they fought back and it went from there. One of 'em got off lucky and only got taken to jail."

"Uh oh. . ." Will started, knowing what was coming.

"Tasha and the other guy are getting treatment at St. Teresa's," Gary said. "Closest place. Made sense."

Will shook his head. "She just couldn't keep from cracking another head before we left? How bad is she, this time?"

Bhat, who was confused at her new surroundings, was nonetheless riveted by the conversation. She'd been on Earth for barely 15 minutes, and already she had one patient.

"Tasha's in better shape than he is," Gary replied. "She's just got a couple of lacerations but they needed closing up."

"Closing up?" Bhat interrupted.

Will touched Bhat's arm, understanding her concern but hoping she'd remember where she was. Somewhat chagrined, Bhat's dark features flushed somewhat, embarrassed at herself for having interrupted a commanding officer.

To Bhat's opposite side, Deanna Troi remained outwardly impassive while sensing regret from Bhat. She only wants to do her job, Deanna thought. It must be difficult for her listen to this.

"I'm not sure how bad the other guy was hurt," Gary continued. "He was messed up, so the ambulance took him."

"Well . . .shit," Will exclaimed, and Deanna felt her eyes widen. It wasn't like Will Riker to curse so openly.

Gary walked around to the other side of the bar to greet Will's companions. Deanna could sense that he knew who they were, and he did. "Hi, I'm Gary Tobin," he said, shaking hands with each of them. "And it is great to see everyone."

"Does Lt. Yar know we're here?" Kendall asked.

"I said something to her just before the fight erupted," Gary said. "She doesn't know details. Uh, I might suggest first names while we're here. People ask too many questions."

"I'd probably better get over to the ED," Will remarked. "It's my turn to bail her out, this time."

"What do you mean, this time?" Deanna asked.

"Long story," Will remarked, keeping his voice low. "We'll have plenty of time to fill you in."

He pulled Gary aside and explained the situation with the ship, and Gary immediately offered a possible solution. Gavin Machias, as it turned out, had a maintenance rating, Gary said. He could fix anything, and since he was a boat captain, he had access to a workshop.

"It's in New Brunswick, but I'm assuming we can beam in," Gary replied.

"We can," Will remarked. They were keeping their voices low so no one could hear their conversation. "Does he know?"

"No," Gary replied. "I need to call Kim, too. I'm going to step outside and do that right now. I didn't want to call anyone until I'd seen you guys actually show up. Now I'm glad I waited. I can update both of them."

* * *

**Along 43rd Street in Kansas City, Missouri, 2100 hours**

Kendall and Troi remained at the 43rd, while Riker and Bhat walked to nearby St. Teresa's Hospital.

"Sorry I cut you off like that," Will said as they waited to cross the street at JC Nichols Boulevard. Bhat's expression bore the same look that Will was certain he had when he first arrived, before he got used to the stink of exhaust fumes belching from vehicles that whizzed past. "We can't be drawing attention to ourselves while we're here."

"It is fine, sir," Bhat said. "I am only concerned for her treatment."

"You're about to get a crash course in 21st century medicine," Will replied. "I might suggest, when we get in there, that you pretend you're NOT experienced with medicine. Kim Tobin found that out firsthand."

"Is she not also a nurse?"

"She is," Will replied. "But medical care in the 24th century is light years ahead of where we are, here. Kim had a tough time. She'll fill you in on details. She worked here for a year as a 'housekeeper', which meant she was cleaning toilets and mopping floors. She said it was horrifying to her to see what was happening, so she literally changed careers because there wasn't anything she realistically could do without violating the codes. It was hard for her."

"I can understand that she couldn't interject," Bhat said. "I was given strict orders by Captain Picard and Dr. Crusher that I was to render aid under controlled circumstances, only."

"What does that mean?"

"When they are not witnessed, sir," she replied, as the hospital's automatic doors opened and they walked inside. Bhat was nearly driven back by the dank, humid air assaulting her from a crowded waiting area, where probably a hundred people waited in two rooms cut by a hallway. Two view screens mounted in each room blared separate programs to those seated there. They looked disinterested, frustrated . . .sick and injured.

Bhat froze in her steps, wanting badly to assist a man slumped, snoring his wait away in one of the plastic chairs. Blood had caked across the top of his forehead. Dirt had been driven so deeply beneath his fingernails that she knew he hadn't bathed in a long time.

She felt a hand—Commander Riker's—touching her elbow. "Come on, they're letting us in."

"They should let him in, too..." she said, unable to stifle her instincts.

"Keep quiet while we're here," he said. "Here's the story: You're a friend of mine and Tasha's. You're visiting from San Francisco for the Thanksgiving holiday. You're in nursing school."

Bhat nodded. "Yes, sir," she replied, gulping. The smell of blood, stale urine and feces struck her as the Emergency Department doors parted open automatically, triggered by the desk nurse who let them in based on Will's story. He could have told them any story to get inside those doors.

She knew that she probably looked like a tourist because she was looking around so much. So she forced herself to look at anything mundane...the walls, the floors, the metal buttons that people activated manually to open their doors.

But the buttons were smeared with dried fluids and germy fingerprints. The floors were dirty. Multi-colored tiles were streaked with mopped dirt...it hadn't been cleaned, it had been wetted down and shoved around with a mop, probably the same mop propped in a bucket of cold, filthy water that had been left in the hallway.

Bhat was impressed by handrails available for patients who had difficulty maneuvering, but it upset her that the care standard of the age didn't address the mobility of patients, here. It catered to the disabilities. Medical care in the 21st century was geared toward fixing problems after it was too late, and not toward preventing problems when they could still be fixed.

Her attention wavered, even as she followed Com. Riker. He was more focused on finding the room number where he'd been told she was. Bhat was glancing into every room, regardless of its number. She peered into an ED suite and saw a woman who looked ancient, with knobby fingers obviously crippled with arthritis. In the 24th century, the inflammation would have been identified and thwarted when the woman still was a teenager. Instead, she'd face the rest of her shortened life as an invalid.

Dr. Crusher had told Bhat that during her career, she would encounter patients who would make her feel helpless, even angry. But what Bhat saw today was like a mass-casualty incident of pathologies, all "aided" by a system that was so busy caring for illnesses that it seemingly had no room for preventative care. She wanted to help every one of them, and tried to ignore that nagging feeling that she was committing abandonment by leaving them untreated.

* * *

**St. Teresa's Hospital Emergency Department, 2200 hours**

"All right, what happened this time?" Will asked. He had peered around a dividing curtain, found his quarry, and fired off a question before he even walked into the treatment suite.

Walking several feet behind Com. Riker, Bhat initially didn't want to touch that curtain. She could see dirty-appearing smears on the edge of the cloth, and tried not to think about what microorganisms must be living on that curtain as she gingerly pushed it away so she could walk into the treatment area where Riker already was conversing with someone.

She immediately recognized Lt. Natasha Yar in a position that she regularly had seen her: Sitting on a treatment bed, waiting impatiently for aid so she could get back to what she'd been doing before the relative inconvenience of being injured.

"Actually, she busted two guys who were selling controlled substances," said another person whose voice neither Riker nor Bhat recognized. He wore a uniform with insignia reading 'City of Kansas City, Missouri Police Department'.

Oh, great . . . Will thought. Just the unwanted attention we didn't need, right now.

"And you are..." the officer asked, turning from Tasha long enough to acknowledge to visitors who had stepped into the treatment room. Tasha grinned at Will and nodded toward Bhat. A newly applied bandage on her forearm told them both that the treatment already had been done.

"Will Riggs," he replied, proffering his hand to the investigating officer, as smoothly as possible and borrowing a line that Tasha had used earlier, when Will himself was an ED patient in another hospital. "Older brother. This is Suravi Bhat. She's a friend of ours."

"Oh yeah?" the officer replied, shaking Will's hand and taking on a tone that was strangely familiar. "So, does she listen to her big brother?"

"Sometimes," Will replied, wondering where this was going.

"Tell her to join the KCPD, for God's sake," he replied. "Because as much as we appreciate responding to the 43rd or to Reconciliation, and finding that the fun part of our job is already done for us by time we get there, we'd be much happier if she were on the force with us, because then, she could do the paperwork."

"I will think about it," Tasha replied, looking down at her bandaged hand.

"You said that two months ago, the last time you sat on someone for us," the officer remarked. "Which was appreciated, by the way."

"Well, that was two months ago," Tasha countered. "And you just got through telling me that you were glad you got this call because it meant that you wouldn't need to be running calls in the cold rain."

"Great group of people, camaraderie, benefits, pension," he said, and his sales pitch was interrupted by the ED charge nurse, who yanked open the curtain with pissed-off purpose.

"Are you the one who beat the crap out of the guy in Trauma 2?" the nurse demanded of Tasha. Her expression was haggard, her eyes bore a no-bullshit expression but her name badge had a yellow, smiley-face sticker affixed to the corner. Bhat liked that nurse immediately.

Tasha nodded. "That would be affirmative," he said.

"OK, he's got a dislocated shoulder, a fractured clavicle, facial fractures, umpteen bruises . . . oh, and we just dug mounds of Zoloft and Ecstasy out of his socks," the nurse rattled off the damage, then turned to the police officer. "He's heading upstairs to surgery. And we see the results of enough z-bars and X in here, so please take your evidence with you."

Tasha turned to the officer and smiled broadly.

"See?" she said. "You'll be so busy with paperwork and inventory that you won't need to work in the rain, later."

"You need to join the force," he said, and then turned to Will. "Lean on her. I mean it. I leaned on my little brother and now he's with KCMO Fire, he's got great benefits, a pension . . .please think about it."

Will nodded his head, smiling. If things went well, they'd be heading home in a couple of weeks so Tasha could continue the job she already did so well: Security Chief of the _USS Enterprise_.

* * *

After the officer left, Tasha smiled at Suravi Bhat, who just shook her head.

"It's not bad," Tasha remarked. "Really! Four sutures. They didn't even need to dig any glass out, this time, and since I already had the pleasure of a tetanus injection the first time I came in here, I didn't even need to have that."

"You got the express lane treatment," Will remarked. "How soon can you leave? I've got to update you on the situation but I don't want to do it in here."

"Whenever," she replied, jumping off the treatment bed. "I'm done."

They began walking down the hallway.

"So, what do you think of the 21st century healthcare environment?" Tasha said, keeping her voice low.

"I would not call it health care," Bhat said.

Tasha turned down the same hallway where Riker and Bhat had walked, earlier.

"Where are we going?" Will asked. "I thought we could use that east exit shortcut."

"Not anymore," she replied. "Security closed that entrance. We all need to use the north door."

Will sighed. "Well, you would know," she said. "You're building quite the suture tab."

"You know, I am not at all surprised by this," Bhat said. She knew Tasha as a frequent, rather reluctant patient in the _Enterprise_ sickbay. "I see that your injury already has been bandaged."

"So, you're not going to fix this for me?" Tasha asked Bhat. She knew Bhat wasn't stupid enough to walk into a 21st century hospital and pull 24th century treatment tricks.

"No, I'm not going to fix it for you!" Bhat exclaimed, knowing Tasha well enough to tease her a bit. This was her problem. Bhat was going to allow Lt. Yar to stew on that, for a while. "You got yourself into this mess and now you are here. My only job is to harangue you, now that they have fixed it."

Tasha let out a deep sigh, then stared at Bhat with a cynical glare.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Bhat couldn't contain a grin. "Yes," she finally said.

**43rd Place, 2345 hours**

Will filled Tasha in on the situation with the stealth shuttle while they were walking back to the 43rd. She shook her head, but rebounded quickly, stating that she was glad she wasn't working the next two days so she could assist with repairs and with helping the Away Team to acclimate.

Within minutes of their arrival back at the bar, several of the band members had egged Tasha into removing the bandage so they could see the damage.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Bhat exclaimed. "A bar is not a stable environment. You should not expose th—,"

But 'stable' meant something different to Tasha. She unwrapped it while she was standing behind the bar, by then crowded with people and let everyone who was interested have a look at it.

After the bandage was unwrapped, Bhat looked more closely, and her eyes grew wide with amazement at what she saw: Four, neat knots, tied with dark, firm thread, holding a laceration together.

"Only four stitches!" the band's guitar player teased. "You slacker!"

"I know . . ." Tasha said, teasing back.

"There is real thread in her skin!" Bhat exclaimed, no longer caring whether anyone heard her. She was horrified. But Deanna Troi, who had been sitting at the bar when they returned, was quickly by Bhat's side.

"Suravi," Troi remarked quietly, gently touching her arm. "Enough. I know you're concerned, but leave it alone, for now. Come sit down."

"Why would she allow anyone to do this to her?"

"It's my job," Tasha remarked, re-bandaging the wound as she walked around the other side of the bar. She couldn't help but overhear the conversation. "It's part of the risk I've assumed."

"It's not your job to receive barbaric treatment from these people," Bhat said.

"Which people? The doctors, or a drug pusher?"

"Both! I could have taken care of this without the scarring, the infection risk...I wonder how more people didn't die of infection from these procedures."

"Well, this was my immediate option, and besides, having an instantly healed wound wouldn't have gone unnoticed," Tasha replied, glancing around. "Where's Gary?"

"He's still on the phone," Troi replied.

* * *

When Gary returned from the back room nearly 10 minutes later, Tasha could tell by his face that he bore more news for all of them.

"What?" she said. "What happened?"

Gary just shook his head.

"Gary..." she began.

"I didn't expect this," he said, pulling her aside.

"What'd Kim say?"

"It's not Kim," Gary replied. "It's Gavin."

"What happened?"

Within the minute, Gary pulled Tasha, Will and Troi into the back hallway by the employee bathroom.

"I've got good news and bad news," Gary said, looking as if he'd been slapped. "The good news is that Gavin thinks he can help with finding metal that would be consistent with what we need, and that he can help with the repairs."

"That's great news," Will began. "But..."

Gary let out a long breath, and Deanna began shaking her head, sensing the impact of what he was about to say.

"Gavin doesn't want to return with us," Gary replied. "He said he'd rather live his dream in the past than die in the future."


	21. Chapter 21

**Future's Past 21**

* * *

**The Tobin house in the Kansas City suburbs on Earth, November 26, 2008, 0230 hours**

Most days, Gary Tobin was the laid-back bartender whose feathers rarely ruffled, even when drunk patrons launched themselves over the bar to attack him when he refused more booze. Before he was marooned 350 years in the past, Gary had a "whatever" attitude. Just deal with what's thrown at you, no need to take anything personally. That carried over nicely to his 21st century life, and he'd had no problem fitting in because of it.

But now, he was so furious that his face flushed red as he tried to explain to his wife, Kim, about a situation that had developed earlier that evening. He had worked through it without saying much, mostly because he had a 21st century audience. He'd stewed about it while he was finishing his shift, and by the time he arrived at their house he was genuinely angry, and that woke Kim up.

The three missing members of the _USS Cheyenne_ finally were about to be rescued, returned to the century where they belonged . . . and one of them didn't want to go back.

Gary and Kim were two of three crewmembers from the _Cheyenne_ who had fallen victim to a temporal displacement more than 10 years earlier. They had found themselves more than three centuries in the past, marooned in the middle of a marshy field in the North American Midwest. It had taken days to figure out where they were, several months to find their footing, one year to settle down to a new life. And now, after nine more years, they finally would get to go home thanks to two members of the USS _Enterprise_ who had been stranded from the same anomaly.

Kim tried to listen attentively to an uncharacteristic venting session by her husband, all the while hoping that their two young daughters didn't hear any of it. They were supposed to be asleep. The last thing they needed at this point would be for their kids to blab to their teachers and friends, so Gary and Kim had agreed not to discuss their plans until they were ready to leave Earth.

Though she knew that Gary was a little leery of the psychology profession in general, Kim was secretly delighted that a counselor had beamed down as part of the rescue team. She was going to need help explaining this to the children. They had no clue where their parents were really from.

But for now, since the _Enterprise_'s rescue team hadn't yet come to their home, Kim sat bleary-eyed and yawning in her kitchen at 0230 hours. She listened to her husband rant over Gavin Machias, who had decided to help repair the disabled shuttle so they could leave, but he didn't want to accompany them back to the 24th century.

"The girls might hear you," Kim said, keeping her voice low.

"—just a kid," Gary said, going on about Gavin. "He doesn't know what the hell he wants!"

"Gavin's not a kid anymore," Kim replied. "He's almost 30 years old, he's married, he's got two kids of his own."

"One kid, the other one's still on the way."

"Same difference." she replied, and her mouth fell open with realization. "Oh God, is that why he doesn't want to go? She can't beam up if she's pregnant. If that's it, can't we stay until she delivers?"

"No, I asked him about that," Gary continued. "He said he'd made his mind up when he got married that he'd never go back if he'd had the chance to. He said he'd rather stay here where he's happy, and that he didn't want to leave his wife or force her to leave her family to join him, or something like that."

"Does she know?"

"He said she knows. I don't know how _much_ she knows," Gary said. "What the hell is so much worse in the 24th century? I don't get that. "

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, Kansas City, Missouri, November 26, 2008, 0300 hours**

Kim Tobin, who was accustomed to more "normal" working hours, had been caught off-guard when her husband woke her in the middle of the night. But for Will Riker and Natasha Yar, who were accustomed to being awake until 0300 hours, their day was only winding down.

The guests in their apartment were three and a half centuries out of their own time, but their "day" was pushing 16 hours. The three crew members who were part of a rescue party from the _USS Enterprise_ already had had an eventful visit, and their stay was just beginning.

What had begun as a three-day mission would now take weeks, thanks to a debris strike that had damaged the shuttle. The shuttle would need extensive repairs to its retro engines. The replicator had sustained critical damage also, rendering it unable to provide not only meals, but also equipment and disposal of waste.

Everyone was thankful that the transporter still was operating. They also knew that the third member of the _USS Cheyenne_'s crew, Ensign Gavin Machias, had been a logistics technician. He also held multiple certificates in mechanics. According to a personnel entry by his commanding officer aboard the _Cheyenne_, Machias could fix "almost anything".

When Will Riker heard that from Gary, he knew he had the answer to the shuttle damage. Ten years might have passed, but an ability to fix "almost anything" wasn't likely to have been lost, especially since Machias' job in the 21st century was somewhat similar, tinkering with boat engines.

Then he heard from Gary that Gavin didn't want to return with the rest of the crews.

And then they had a two-fold problem. As soon as Tasha was able to leave work just after 0200 hours, they all returned en masse to the apartment, and spoke quietly about their situation.

"We don't want to alienate this officer," Will said, speaking of Machias to the _Enterprise_ officers who had gathered in his apartment. "Realistically, he's our best chance to repair the ship. We don't have the tools, the workshop, the engine ratings...even O'Brien doesn't possess that."

"But we can't force him to go back against his will," Deanna said. "We need to balance—,"

"Uh, yes we can," Will said. "He's an enlisted officer. If he fails to report back, he'll be AWOL, whether it's now or 350 years from now."

"In exchange for his assistance, he should be allowed an honorable discharge," Tasha said, cutting to the chase, as usual.

"That's not our decision! That's Starfleet's call."

"Well, unfortunately, we don't have the option of placing a subspace request for that," Tasha replied. "You're the acting CO. It's your call."

"I'm aware of my responsibilities," he snapped, but he knew she was right. _She's blunt but she's right,_ he thought. _And I need to get a grip on who's in charge, here._ He hoped that the tact she'd worked so hard to develop during the time they were here wouldn't be lost in the next few days.

Counselor Troi picked up on the frustration, too.

"Commander, it's late for all of us," Deanna replied. She had sensed the tension not only between Will Riker and Natasha Yar, but also from other members of the Earth-bound team. Everyone was exhausted. Even Louden Kendall, whose adrenalin rush at doing historical research in his ancestral home had left him positively giddy before beam-down, was about to fall asleep sitting in one of the kitchen chairs.

"Sir, my recommendation at this point would be sleep for everyone," she said, directing her comments to Will. "The three of us should beam up, and schedule the next communication at 0800 tomorrow. That's not much time to sleep, but it's better than not sleeping at all. We can't be expected to make rational decisions, otherwise."

Carrying a box of granola bars and a six-pack of bottled water that Will offered in the interim since the shuttle's food replicator was broken, Gary, Deanna and Bhat beamed up to the shuttle, leaving Will and Tasha in their apartment.

* * *

"You _really_ piss me off, sometimes," Will spat at Tasha as the transport beam's hum ceased, signifying that the three members of the Away Team had departed the apartment.

"Those were legitimate statements," Tasha remarked.

"You don't need to prompt me on how to do my job!" Will said.

"That wasn't my intention—"

"It wasn't the intention," Will remarked, standing up. "It was the way it came across."

"Yes, sir," she replied, snapping back to military speech as if he'd flipped a switch. "I'm sorry."

"I'm going to bed," he said, trudging into the darkened bedroom, leaving her sitting on the couch. She stayed there for several minutes, watching as shadows from headlights passing on the street three stories below darted across the far wall. By the time she slipped into the bathroom to brush her teeth, Will was already sleeping hard on his bed across the room, still wearing all his clothes, as if he'd just sacked out the instant he walked back there.

Tasha knew that he'd wake up within a couple of hours with leg cramps because he'd fallen asleep with his shoes still on. She'd taken them off for him, before. She chose not to, this time. She figured that if he wanted to be in charge again, he needed to fend for himself.

She grabbed her pillow and a blanket off her bed, and retreated to the main room to sleep on the couch.

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, November 26, 2008, 0610 hours**

Tight cramps in his lower legs woke Will from what would have been a sound sleep, had he taken his shoes off before collapsing into bed the night before. Jarred awake with pain, he forced his feet to flex to stave off a worse cramp.

_Why are my shoes still on? Oh, yeah_ . . . he remembered. _Long day, long night, bad news, ship orbiting above, snapping at Tasha who's probably still asleep—no, she's even not in her bed._ He stood up and peered through the door, and saw her passed out on the couch, her eyes shut and strands of blonde hair trailing across her face as if she'd been tossing and turning before finally falling asleep curled up on her side with her knees drawn up.

As Will sat on the other end of the couch, she stirred, rolling over onto her back and sleepily brushing her hair out of her eyes. Her eyes darted to the clock: 0615. _Had it only been three hours? _

"Good morning, sir," she said, her voice bearing obvious fatigue.

KC, who had been asleep by her side, woke up stretching and yawning. _He's going to be a huge cat,_ Will mused. Figures. _He eats two cans of food every day, plus whatever scraps fall on the floor. _The cat had it good when Will was cooking, often waiting at his feet while he chopped meat or cooked items at the stove.

KC always slept wherever Tasha was sleeping, even curling up in her empty bed when she was working late. This morning, he stretched while lying atop her chest, and Tasha didn't seem to mind that, at all.

Will glanced in her direction, then reached to gently embrace the tops of both her folded-up knees with his forearm, nudging her to rest her lower legs across his lap. He didn't say much, initially, and didn't need to. They both understood an apology when it was coming.

"What am I going to do without you to remind me to take off my boots before I collapse into bed after a bad day?"

"Leg cramps?"

"Oh, yeah," he replied. "I should have taken my shoes off."

"Sorry about last night," she said, simple and to-the-point

"Me, too," he replied, instantly, before he even really thought about his response. As a superior officer, he'd been within his bounds to call her on insubordination. But since they'd gone more than a year without following rank, he knew he could have been more tactful in re-initiating the chain of command system. And he didn't need to do that in front of three other people.

"I was out of line," she said, actually looking at him for the first time, even as she felt his forearms rest on her lower legs.

"So was I," he replied.

"Well, I was more out of line," she replied, always wanting to have the last word. It wouldn't be much longer before this type of interaction between them wouldn't be allowed, anymore.

Will smiled, then shook his head as he looked at her feet.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't understand how you can sleep every night with socks on your feet," he remarked.

"My feet would get cold," she replied.

"I remember when you didn't like wearing socks," he said.

"Oh, I've developed a fondness for socks, especially in the winter," she said. "And I think after last night, you beat me fair and square in the foot covering department."

"Unfortunately, I did," he remarked, sliding out from beneath her legs so he could stand up. "I haven't crashed like that in a long time. I'd be willing to get that everyone on the shuttle is dying for a shower and a cup of coffee."

"Probably so," she replied.

* * *

By 1100 hours, all five members of the Away Team had taken turns showering at the apartment, had acquired several days worth of clothing at the thrift store and had been able to grab something to eat at a sandwich shop that Will and Tasha were fond of, mostly because of its variety and cheap prices.

But the next order of business was to discuss their options with Gavin Machias, who lived in Canada. Due to terrorism-induced security concerns, it was difficult to travel between countries without authentic documents, so the Tobins had never visited Machias after he moved to New Brunswick several months after they all had been marooned in the 21st century.

Gary had already spoken with Gavin by phone again that morning. He was scheduled for an 8-hour shift as captain of a ferry that ran near his home, but would be back at his home by 1300 hours Kansas City time.

At a pre-determined time after Gavin's ferry shift, a total of four people beamed directly into Gavin's small house. Gary and Will went first, then Deanna and Miles O'Brien second while Barajas and Bhat remained on the shuttle.

But Kim Tobin, suddenly racked with nervousness over the whole situation, feigned illness at her workplace and went home. Her girls were either in school or preschool, so she had the house to herself. Alone in her uncharacteristically silent house, she sat on the couch and said a small prayer that the transporter beam wouldn't malfunction, that Gary would make it back, and that everything would be all right after that.

_This must be what it's like for Starfleet spouses whose significant others leave on missions without their families._ Kim wondered how spouses were able to deal with that stress for months, even years.

As a nurse aboard the _Cheyenne_, she had seen how that stress impacted those aboard starships. She remembered nodding empathetically, and repeating platitudes she'd heard others utter. It had been so easy to say when she didn't have a family and was the one journeying beyond the sun.

Now she truly understood how it felt to be the one left behind. She didn't like it, and resolved that if they were reassigned to a ship, she would lobby that they be assigned as a family for the sake of their children, who as yet had no concept of what they were going to face in the 24th century.

* * *

**The Machias home, near Hopewell Cape, New Brunswick, Canada, November 26, 2008**

"—can accelerate, but we've only got retros on impulse power," Miles O'Brien was explaining to Machias as they sat around a table set up in the spartan but warm kitchen of his house. "We can't slow down once we go to warp."

"But the retros are on the opposite side of the impact point," Gavin said.

"Yes, they are," Miles nodded. "Inertia should have absorbed that energy."

"Sounds like contrecoup damage, to me," Gavin said. He was 30 years old, and looked it. His face and arms reflected years of working on the water, where the reflection intensified the sun's rays. Will realized that Gavin had true "sailor's hands", strong and calloused by hard work.

"Contrecoup," Will's brow furrowed. "That's a new term."

"Actually, it's an old term, to us," Gavin explained. "But it's the only term I know to describe it. On the water, I see it a lot when inexperienced pilots tear their bottoms out trying to get their boats out of the shallows when the tide goes out. They gun their engine and hope the current will hasten their departure from the shallows. But then they slam into the rocks, and they stop suddenly. Everything that isn't tied down breaks loose. First it goes forward, and then it rebounds back. And the damage from that rebound can be as bad.

"People can get hurt badly by either type of impact," Gavin continued. "If they're riding in the open, they'll fly right off the front end of the boat. But if they're inside the cabin, they'll ricochet around. The first impact throws them off balance, they move their hands forward to protect themselves, and then the rebound snaps them back so fast they don't have time to move their hands back for protection. Sounds like that's what happened to those engines. The parts on an orbital-only engine are too delicate to take impact like that. Even inertia couldn't protect it."

"Can you repair it?" Gary asked.

"I don't know," Gavin replied. "With this equipment...if it's only mechanical in nature, I probably can. But if it's digital, I can't help that. What we need to do is set down someplace where we can have access to some degree of gravity."

"The moon, maybe," Miles said.

"Ensign O'Brien is fully rated on the digital and energy emissions," Riker said. "We can set down in an inconspicuous area of the moon, perhaps in a valley where our presence wouldn't be as notable. We have three vacuum suits."

"I'll need to evaluate what you've got that works, and then I'll see if I can find some things that'll work to replace what doesn't," Gavin replied. "I've got my own boathouse, so I'll have someplace to work on it. The problem we'll run into will be getting parts, and that's harder in Canada than it is in the United States. We tend to clean up our junkyards up here. In the US, it sits and rusts."

"There are tons of junk yards around Kansas City," Gary began. "Someone's bound to have something we can use."

"I'll need adhesive that's tolerant of high heat. Welds won't hold, and most steel would melt under the temperatures that those retros are exposed to. Tool-grade steel probably would work, but it might be too heavy. Mostly, I've got to see what's going on with it—," he turned at the sound of the side door opening. "Oh, hi, sweetie!"

Celice was Gavin's age, brunette, very pregnant, carrying two cloth bags of groceries in one hand and balancing her two-year-old son against her opposite hip with the other arm. A no-nonsense realist, she nodded nonchalantly to the strangers in her kitchen and said, "You must be from the spaceship. Glad I got extra scallops."

* * *

"I listened to all those people who told me I should enlist because I could fix anything, that I'd be a great asset," Gavin was explaining as he sat on one of the porch chairs with 2-year-old Evan in his lap, overlooking the Bay of Fundy. Everyone else had joined him on the huge porch that Gavin had built off the side of his house.

The tide was coming in, and with it came a gentle breeze. They had all just finished off a meal of boiled scallops that were dripping in butter and onions, and as delicious as they were, Deanna inwardly wondered whether she would fit into her clothes the next day.

"My pop was adamant," Gavin continued. "He didn't want me wasting away here. So I enlisted, but I was never happy. The instant I left Earth, I knew I'd made a huge mistake leaving."

"If you hadn't left, you couldn't have come back," Deanna remarked.

"Strange logic, but correct," he said. "I stayed in Kansas City for a few months, and then once we figured out we were there to stay, I knew there was just one place where I wanted to be. So I came home. And guess what...I'm a captain! I command a boat full of cargo and people, in an environment where there's nine meters of difference between high tide and low tide, where conditions change in a heartbeat. You ever seen the tides on the Bay of Fundy?"

"I've heard of them," Miles O'Brien remarked. "Never seen them."

"We're coming on high tide, now," Gavin remarked, nodding to the bay. "It'll start rushing out within an hour. And when the tide's coming in when there's a storm approaching, it's something else. But, anyway, I love this. I shouldn't have left."

"You'd be given credit for years served when you were in this timeline," Will said. "You'd be out in less than a decade."

"I know it makes no sense, especially with a war coming up, with the Xindi, with all these things that we both know are going to happen. But I belong here."

"Your family is bound to be devastated."

"My family's here," Gavin remarked, smiling as Celice sat beside him. "Celice knows, but we don't dwell on it. Her family's been great. Her parents, all her brothers and sisters, she's related to half the town. And after we met, they just took me in like a member of their own family."

"Do they know, also?" Deanna asked.

Celice shook her head. "I haven't told them, and they haven't asked," she replied. "They only know that he doesn't have any family here. He's just become part of our family, and those questions aren't important to us. Gavin has told me some things, enough that we have food, water and other supplies stockpiled and we have a place we can go if there is radiation. But I haven't told anyone, no. My family has lived in this area for 200 years. We couldn't imagine leaving."

Deanna nodded, sensing the outright honesty in Celice.

"My own pop would be more devastated if I went back and then left Starfleet," Gavin replied. "We never had the best relationship, and he was more proud of what I did in Starfleet than he is of who I actually am. And right now, in this place, I love what I do, I love where I am, and there is no other place or time where I belong. I don't want to go back, and I don't think I'd be any good to Starfleet if I did. I'd wind up as disgruntled as you think I'd be."

"And I believe you would be," Deanna replied. "I can sense in Celice a genuine fear of leaving, but a greater fear that you will be forced to go back. I can tell you that we are not going to force you to do anything against your wishes."

* * *

Gavin walked with Gary and O'Brien to his nearby boat dock. He carried Evan, a spirited but inquisitive little boy with eyes that seemed older than his two years. Celice was glad for the break, and lay down for a nap while Gavin headed across the road and downhill to give his guests the nickel tour of the boathouse.

"When is she due?" Gary asked.

"January," Gavin replied.

"Know what you're having?"

"Nah, we decided we didn't want to find out, this time," Gavin replied. "We found out with Evan, but we decided the surprise would be better, so we'll find out in January."

"We did that with Piper," Gary replied, "We were surprised with the first one, and after that we figured we'd had enough surprises, by then. We hadn't planned on having kids right away."

"Chaney was a surprise?"

"Chaney was a surprise," Gary confirmed.

"It happens," Gavin remarked. "Number Two is our surprise."

Will and Deanna lagged behind the group, and he inhaled the ocean air and couldn't help but smile. "Ahh. . ." he said. "Smells like home. Different side of the continent, smaller cliffs, but a lot of it's the same. And it's the same in the 24th century, too."

"Commander," Deanna said. "I can sense how unhappy you are that Gavin doesn't want to return with us, but put yourself in his position. Imagine that you're unhappy with where you are. You're given a chance to live where you wanted to live, doing something you'd always wanted to do."

He shook his head. "I still don't understand it."

"If your father hadn't pushed you away from Alaska, would you have left?"

He stopped walking and looked at her.

"Low blow," he muttered.

Deanna shook her head. "Context, sir," she insisted. "Put yourself in his place. Would you have left your home if you hadn't been driven away?"

"That was the path not taken."

"Gavin Machias has taken both paths, so he's making an experienced decision," Deanna replied. "I sense that he is very happy here. He feels challenged by what he is doing. He feels he is contributing to his society. He feels connected. And if he can help us, I would think he more than fulfills any obligation."

He let out a deep breath he had been holding so she could finish, but a response he'd planned didn't make sense, anymore.

"Will," she said, chancing the use of his first name, and sensing his relief when she said it. "Starfleet regulations often fail to address circumstances like this, and in those cases, it's left to those dealing with that situation to decide the course of action. He wants to help us."

* * *

As a ferry captain for boats further inland up the Bay, Machias also maintained his own shop for his small watercraft, tied up to a floating dock that was constructed to handle the twice-daily, tidal swells. As the tide rose and fell, the boat, dock and gangway linking it to the land moved with it.

They all crossed the gangplank. It didn't escape Gavin's attention that Miles O'Brien seemed more comfortable than the rest of the visitors at crossing a moving walkway.

"You've done this, before," Gavin remarked. "Where are you from, again?"

"Ireland, near Belfast," Miles replied.

"Well, there we go," Gavin said, a smile breaking through his tanned face. "The North Atlantic is in your blood!"

"—don't have any adhesive that would work," Gary explained, standing inside his shop. The shop was geared toward marine repairs, not aeronautical or space repairs. But it would do. It had a chain-link hoist for heavy lifting, literally dozens of tools and plenty of counter space. "The shuttle's replicator should contain that compound. If it can be synthesized, it can be used."

"There's the other problem," Will replied. "Our replicator is out, too."

"The damage must have gotten your port side."

Will smiled. "You do know shuttle schematics!"

"All shuttles put their synth units on the port side, and transporters on the starboard side," Machias replied. "Probably a good thing it hit your port side."

"A very good thing," Miles said. "We'd have no way to get down here or back."

"So I should pack a lunch, is what you're saying," Gavin said.

Will nodded.

"So you'll help us?" Will asked.

"Yeah, I'll help," Gavin smiled. "Been awhile since I've bounced around on the Moon, but I think we can set up a repair station. We'll need to sterilize everything that goes outside. If we leave any cooties up there and mess things up for future expeditions, I don't want to be the party that left 'em behind."

"Gavin," Will said, choosing to use his first name as opposed to his last name and rank. "We're here because we need your help. We're not about to do anything against your wishes. As much as I hope that you and your immediate family will return with us, I will, as the ranking officer here, honor your wishes to stay."


	22. Chapter 22

**Future's Past, Chapter 22**

* * *

_**Enterprise**_** stealth shuttle, orbiting Earth, November 26, 2008**

Gavin Machias wasn't at all unnerved by his first space walk in more than a decade. Having grown up being tossed around in the turbulent Bay of Fundy on Earth, he'd never been seasick, nor had he been spacesick when he served aboard the _USS Cheyenne_. And he had no time for it, either. He had work to do.

Leaving three relative strangers in his home with his wife and son, Machias and Away Team Ensign Miles O'Brien beamed up to the shuttle for a repair reconnaissance.

They did pause while leaving Earth's orbit to look at the ancient, pieced-together hulk orbiting on the other side of the planet. The International Space Station had an impossibly low orbit, frightening for all three Starfleet officers who knew how easy it was for such an orbit to slip into atmospheric entry.

"That's the _Space Shuttle Endeavor_," Machias said. "They launched little more than a week ago, docked with the station and are scheduled to go back in a couple of days."

"Amazing," O'Brien said. "The launches were supposed to have been spectacular. Ever seen one launch?"

"Just on television," Machias said. "Never did make it to a launch in person."

* * *

The _Enterprise_'s damaged stealth shuttle left Earth's orbit and limped to the Moon, where it could set down in a valley, hopefully without attracting too much attention from Earth. The shuttle needed a visual inspection so they'd know exactly what they were dealing with.

By the time the shuttle had landed in one of the valleys near the moon's base, Gavin already had his vacuum suit on, and he was the first to step outside the shuttle. Ensign Julio Barajas had set down in a shaded part of the valley, to reduce the chance that the dull, black finish of the stealth shuttle would be visible against the Moon's sun-drenched, powder surface.

Moving slowly to avoid kicking up too much dust, Gavin lumbered in the oversized boots around the rear of the shuttle. But even before he reached the port side, he saw a slew of problems.

He had been told the shuttle had sustained a debris strike while orbiting Earth in stealth mode. But "debris strike" was an understatement. The front side of the port engine, which held the all-important warp retros, was missing probably half of the stabilizers. The ones that remained were pockmarked enough that they needed to be replaced.

"Ahh . . . shit," he muttered into his helmet mike.

"Say again, please," Barajas radioed from inside the shuttle, trying to hide the humorous tinge in his voice. Of course, Barajas had heard exactly what had been said. He just wasn't sure whether the word "shit" was intended as a mistake or a pronouncement.

_And that's not a good sign,_ O'Brien thought, having heard through his own helmet radio what Machias had said. O'Brien was still in the shuttle's airlock, going through the sterilization field so no Earthbound microbes wound up on the Moon.

"Uh, sorry about that, sir," Machias said. "I just saw the damage."

"Does it look that bad?" O'Brien asked, stepping

"Well, I'm glad we aren't repairing this in orbit," Machias said. "I don't know what hit the ship, but it mauled your port retros and there are at least . . . from what I see there are four more stabilizers with fragment damage. The warp retro on your port engine is gone. If you try to brake out of warp with this, you'd spin out. These stabilizers will snap off and you'll rotate into the sun while you're time warping."

"So, in 21st century terms, we are, um . . ." Barajas began.

"Well, right now you're just screwed," Machias said. "You can fly and brake using only the starboard engine while you're on impulse in this thing, right? I mean, I wouldn't want to try to use even impulse brakes with this port engine."

"Yes, we can handle impulse on one engine," Barajas replied.

"We'll need to take the cover off to make sure nothing got scrambled, inside," Machias said. "But I think I can rig something up that would work to keep things fairly even on your warp retros. But you actually need these stabilizers replaced, too, or they'll snap off even if your warp retros work perfectly."

O'Brien had just walked outside the shuttle and saw exactly what Machias was talking about. "That's not good," he muttered. "That's much worse than the inside sensors indicated."

"I wonder how bad the inside is," Machias said, turning and nodding to O'Brien. "Some of the debris punctured through."

"I brought the tool bag so we can take that cover off," O'Brien remarked, leaving the weighed-down container magneted to the shuttle's side. He began walking around the side of the shuttle. "I'm going to have a look at the exterior covering our replicator."

Machias wondered if there were any way to trace and beam up the pieces of the engine that had broken away. That particular metal alloy was not available on Earth in the 21st century, but he knew there were others that (while not optimal) would still work. He took off the cowling that covered the engine and saw that the inside wasn't bad, at all. Finally, some good news, he thought.

"OK, the engine itself looks good," Machias reported. "The warp retros look like the impact shifted all the blades over, so I'd be willing to bet that it's shaft is bent."

O'Brien had seen enough from the port side of the shuttle and had joined Machias. "You know, I figured the retros were in worse shape than that, but the blades look good."

"Yeah, they really do," Machias agreed.

O'Brien pointed a tricorder at the engine, performing a fractographic analysis to make sure there were no microscopic cracks that they hadn't seen, yet. "Well, two of the blades have critical cracks."

"You suppose the retros will take different weights of blades?" Machias said. "I can get material to replace them, but it'll be heavier. It'll throw it off balance."

"I suppose we can replace all the blades to balance it," O'Brien said. "It'll be time-consuming, but we can do it. I'd rather be safe than sorry. And chances are more of these blades will snap when we straighten that shaft. Their tabs probably will crack under the realignment stress."

"How bad is the port side?"

"Whatever hit the port side was hard enough to leave a dent," he said. "It didn't shear any of the outer hull, but I'd be willing to bet that it destroyed the replicator. We'll look at it tonight after you go back. It's acting like it's digital."

"You have any replacement chips aboard?"

"Yeah, we've got a few," O'Brien said. "But if I take the panel off and see too many of them have cracked, then that's it. The indicators were showing heat, also, so it might have melted the energy converter."

"Well, most bigger cities have computer supply stores that'll have some digital supplies," Gavin said. "I just don't know if they've got control chips or energy conversion stuff that you can use for the replicator. But I know they manufacture and sell tungsten, so if we can get some of that, we can repair these stabilizers. It's antiquated and a little heavy, but it's available."

"Bad news is even if I can repair the replicator, it'll take awhile to fix the retros and those stabilizers," O'Brien said.

Machias shook his head. "We'll be packing lunches."

"Didn't like the synthesized food, anyway," O'Brien said.

"So, even after a decade, the food hasn't gotten better?" Machias asked.

"Nope," O'Brien replied. "At least the waste disposal on the starboard side is still intact." A prolonged repair mission would have been really bad if the shuttle didn't have a working bathroom. But not having the replicator for food was going to complicate things.

"We'll need to reline this whole engine," Gavin continued, nodding to the dents atop the cowling, and the cracks in the heat shield beneath it. "Looks like it's only the radiant heat shield that's damaged, and the base one looks OK. The impact came from the top port side. I can get a WeldShield for the top heat shield. That vermiculite stuff is out of our league, too expensive, but the silica shield ought to work for lining that's punctured."

"How long will it take to get one of those?"

"The WeldShield I can get within the week. There's a shop in Moncton, up the bay from where my ferry runs. They sell welding supplies, masks, solder, you name it. I've got a moderate-grade WeldShield in my boat shop. You drape it around a project to keep sparks from burning anything when they're cast off. Best part is that it's flexible and it can withstand the temps. But mine is pretty beat up and it isn't the right grade, but I know they've got stuff that'll work."

* * *

**Machias house, near Hopewell Cape, New Brunswick, Canada**

After another 20 minutes outside scanning the shuttle with both eyes and tricorders, Machias and O'Brien returned inside, then the shuttle limped on impulse to Earth orbit so Machias could beam back down safely. He and O'Brien had discussed their repair options, and agreed to regroup tomorrow with repair estimates and possible resources for materials.

Machias' wife, Celice, had waited nervously in their home for Gavin to return, and sighed with relief when he materialized, then looked at her and grinned.

"Hi, Cel," he said, as if he'd just walked in the door. "I'm home."

"Well, I'm very glad you're home," Celice said, a wry smile creeping to her face. "I don't know how I would have explained what had happened to you if you hadn't been put back together."

Will and Gary established a rotational "beam-up schedule" so materials and repairs could be accomplished while allowing downtime, and allowing everyone (especially Machias) to maintain their normal working schedules. If Machias wanted to stay, he didn't need to lose his job because he blew off his 'regular' life. At the same time, they would all need to maintain a sense of normalcy in case repairs weren't successful.

At best, they'd all be going home, Will said. "And at worst, everyone who came back to rescue us will be . . . getting jobs."

"Tough economy to be needing to do that," Gary remarked. "If that happens, it'll be time for another classified."

"That is our backup," Deanna confirmed. "If we're stranded, we'll be filing an advertisement on the list."

"You mean, placing a classified ad in what's left of the newspaper," Gary said.

"What's _left_ of the newspaper?" Deanna asked. "Isn't that what alerted us to your presence, here?"

"Newspapers are going out of business," Gary replied. "The economy is mostly the problem, but by the time the news is printed on paper, it's dated material. So papers are losing money, and now they're either cutting production, eliminating their staff or shutting down the papers entirely, hopefully, the shuttle damage can be repaired before the _Kansas City Star_ folds, too."

"Well, since the news industry is in shambles, we'll be imposing our own deadlines," Will remarked.

Gary barely suppressed a groan at the ironic reference, but he knew Will was right.

"What's your estimate on how long the repairs could take?" Will asked.

"At least a week," Machias said. "More likely, two weeks."

"If it can be done," Will replied.

"Mechanically, I think we can do it, if we can get the materials and figure out how to make an adhesive that'll hold up to the forces and heat," Gavin replied. "O'Brien and Barajas are looking at those. "

"Well, if we're going to be having houseguests for the next couple of weeks, we'd better get more toilet paper," Gary remarked, practically nonchalant, as usual.

* * *

It was decided that everyone, including those who had been living on Earth, would take turns doing "shuttle shifts", with repair shifts taking precedence. Since the Tobins had much more space in their home, the majority of the Away Team would stay with them while they were on Earth. Deanna Troi would stay with Will and Tasha. But everyone would spend at least one 24-hour shift in the shuttle so it would not be left unattended.

The Away Team bade temporary goodbye to the Machias family, especially to Celice, who had been so understanding of the whole invasion into her home. Practical and well meaning, she seemed relieved to meet a group of people who confirmed what Gavin had told her about where he'd come from. Then Will Riker, Deanna Troi and Gary Tobin beamed back to the shuttle, leaving Gavin and his family with a communicator and cell phone numbers for Gary, Kim, Will and Tasha.

When the Away Team reunited with those still aboard the shuttle, Riker decided that Lt. Louden Kendall and Ensign Suravi Bhat, neither of whom had spent much time aboard the shuttle since their arrival, would fulfill the first shift. O'Brien would remain aboard the shuttle for the night while everyone else slept on Earth. He would beam Kendall and Bhat up at 0800 hours tomorrow, and then he would be beamed down to the Tobin house for much-needed downtime.

Machias wouldn't be able to work on the shuttle much, tomorrow, anyway. He was scheduled for another ferry shift, plus a quarterly meeting for boat captains in the Bay. He knew he needed to keep his usual commitments if he wanted to avoid unwanted attention.

"You know what'll happen if I don't show up to the guild meeting?" Machias said. "They're having annual elections. If I'm not there, I'll get 'elected' to an office because I wasn't there to refuse it. So I've _got_ to be at this one."

O'Brien was glad that he would be able to stay aboard the shuttle for the next 12 hours by himself: He wanted more time to try and figure out what had happened to the replicator. He remained aboard the shuttle by himself that night, undisturbed and able to take apart the replicator and spread its shredded remains across the entire floor of the shuttle without needing to worry that they'd be stepped on or scattered by anyone else.

Even before he'd reached the most internal components of the replicator unit, O'Brien stopped what he was doing and shook his head. Any further disassembling—or reassembling the parts already stripped out—was obviously unnecessary.

The replicator was irreparably damaged. The impact had started an energy chain reaction, thankfully shut down by automatic system sensors programmed to firewall the unit should an energy dump occur. The heat had been encapsulated within the system that converts energy to matter (and thus constructed the replicated meals). Now it was a melded, chunk of metal that would have been more useful as a paperweight.

"Fried," O'Brien muttered. There would be no fabricating this. It was like trying to replace a warp coil in the 21st century, so it just wasn't going to happen. He glanced at the chronometer, and opted at 0230 hours to just sleep until 0600. He'd break the bad news to Commander Riker in the morning.

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment in Kansas City, November 27, 2008, 0215 hours**

Exhausted from work at the bar but trying not to disturb anyone from the Away Team who might be asleep in the apartment, Tasha gingerly unlocked the door and crept inside. She slipped off her coat and hung it up without flipping on the light switch.

Enough light filtered into the apartment from the nearby streetlights that Tasha could see one person passed out on the couch in the main room. From the long, dark hair splayed all over the throw pillow, Tasha figured it probably was Deanna Troi.

The person stirred a bit, opened her eyes, "Welcome back," she said, and it was Deanna. "How was your shift at work?"

"Long," Tasha replied. "I got Will's text about what happened. Are you the only one staying with us?"

"Yes," Deanna replied, yawning. "The Tobins have much more space. Ensign O'Brien still is on the shuttle. We're to receive a check-in transmission from him at 0615 hours."

"It feels cold in here. Are you warm enough?" Tasha asked, whispering. "We've got a couple of extra blankets."

"Oh, I'm fine," she replied. "Are you planning to sleep, or do you stay up after work?"

"No, I'm already half-asleep," Tasha said. "We were so busy. I guess everyone needed to get drunk and belligerent before they're stuck with their families over the holiday."

"At least they aren't getting drunk and belligerent around their families," Deanna said, her eyes shutting already. "Good night."

"Good night," Tasha replied, smiling a bit even as she walked into the bedroom, where Will had remained passed out on his bed throughout her whispered conversation with Deanna. But the cat, which had been asleep on her bed, woke to her presence and meowed a greeting to her.

"Will?" she whispered, sitting on the edge of her bed and taking off her shoes.

"Hmm," he moaned into his pillow.

"Hey, I'm back," Tasha said.

"How was work?"

"Busy," she replied. "It was like Mardi Gras in there."

"Sorry," he muttered.

"In a way, I'm not," she replied. "It kept me from thinking, too much. So, what are we doing tomorrow?"

"Kendall and Bhat are taking the first shift tomorrow, 24 hours," he replied, rolling onto his back. "They'll beam up from the Tobins at 0800 and O'Brien's beaming down after that. We need to work out the rest of the schedule tomorrow. But we're all going over there for Thanksgiving."

"We're all beaming to the _shuttle_ for Thanksgiving?"

"No, to the Tobin's house," he said. "Use the holiday to regroup and plan."

"Are you and Gary still cooking that turkey tomorrow?"

"Oh, yeah," Will said. "That hasn't changed."

"All right," Tasha said, standing up to change her clothes in the bathroom. Even after living together as long as they had, neither of them felt comfortable undressing in front of the other. After she emerged, wearing her usual t-shirt and shorts, she crawled beneath the covers and was nearly asleep when Will's voice jarred her out of the welcoming darkness.

"Hey, Tash," he said.

"Yeah?" she whispered. _You're getting me back for waking you up, aren't you?_ She thought.

"Your cat hacked up something disgusting at the foot of my bed," he said. "I have no idea what it was. Deanna thought it was a hairball, but it had legs."

"It was probably a cricket," Tasha replied, sleepily. "They've been coming in under the front door from the hallway. He's been hunting them."

"Oh, great," Will muttered. "He could have left his slimy gift in front of _your _bed, since he's _your_ cat, but no . . ."

"Good night," she laughed.

"Good night."

Tasha was waiting for more disparaging remarks about the cat that Will only grudgingly accepted, but within a few more seconds, Will had fallen back asleep. KC had taken his usual spot, lying atop the covers but snuggled firmly against Tasha, purring and content, without a care in the world.

In the adjacent room, Deanna Troi, who hadn't heard the exact words of Will and Tasha's conversation but sensed their genuine and hard-won friendship, smiled as she slipped back off to sleep.

* * *

_**Enterprise**_** stealth shuttle, orbiting Earth, November 27, 2008**

After being briefed by O'Brien about the replicator's status the next morning, Will placed a hasty phone call to the Tobins. Did they have anything in the house that Kendall and Bhat could take with them to eat on the shuttle?_ Sure_, Kim replied. _We've got plenty to tide them over._

By the time 0800 came, both officers were ready to go, armed with a plastic, grocery bag bearing food for the next 24 hours. It was full of bottled water, apples, homemade peanut butter sandwiches and a large bag of potato chips that had squirreled away in the pantry.

Neither of them objected to being the first to "serve the shuttle shift," as Kendall put it. They both brought reading material: Bhat carried several, non-fiction books that Kim had been reading about the state of early 21st century medical care. She had never heard the term "insurance" or "HMO" before the rescue mission.

Kendall had brought the Tobins' copy of the Kansas City Yellow Pages, a veritable research encyclopedia that thoroughly intrigued Kendall. He also planned to listen to some of the radio programming from Earth, using satellite signals.

Though he was a bit disappointed that he'd miss the Thanksgiving gathering, Kendall was overjoyed that he'd get to pilot, again. Even when his classes went on off-ship field trips, he rarely got to pilot those shuttles.

But now, he was the only pilot aboard. Though Bhat was in Starfleet, she did not possess pilot credentials. It was something she hoped to attain, eventually, most likely during her _Enterprise_ tenure. She just hadn't done it, yet.

"Let's see what this baby can still do," Kendall said, accelerating to ¼ impulse. "Yeeh...that pitch is slow. I can tell there's some drag on it."

"I'm just glad the gravity is functioning," Bhat said. "I dislike zero-G immensely."

Even before Bhat beamed aboard the shuttle, she was worried that someone in the Earthbound group might have a medical emergency while she was orbiting the Moon. Natasha Yar had already done that within minutes of the rescue team's arrival on Earth, and Bhat didn't want anyone else on their team to submit to 21st century medical care. But Commander Riker had assured her that she'd be beaming back down if that were the case.

An awful thought hit her. "What if the turkey explodes?" Bhat asked.

"Why would a turkey _explode_?" Kendall asked, taking control of the shuttle's pilot console to steer back into the Moon's orbit.

"Kim Tobin said that she hoped it was completely thawed before Gary placed it in the hot oil for cooking," Bhat explained. "She said that if the turkey was still frozen, it would explode. That would certainly result in injuries."

"No, it was thawed out," he replied. "They marinated it last night, so it had to have been thawed even before they marinated it. I wouldn't mind having some leftovers tomorrow, though."

"If no one is killed or injured in the cooking process, you may have my helping of turkey," Bhat said. "I am vegetarian. I'm rather glad I'm not going to be there when it's cooking. I don't want to imagine what the cholesterol level will be in a fried turkey."

"Well, pretty much everything that's processed in this century is loaded with hidden calories, salt, sugar, you name it," Kendall said. "It's the American way, to eat things that aren't good for people."

* * *

**At the Tobin house, Mission, Kansas, November 27, 2008**

"Can you believe how warm it is outside?" Gary said, standing on the concrete slab just outside his back door. He had a potholder covering one hand, and held a bottle of beer in the other. "It's got to be 65 degrees out here."

Barajas stared at him. "It's a lot cooler than that," he said.

"Oh, they use the Fahrenheit system here," Gary said. "I've kind of gotten used to it. The bad thing is that if it's this warm today and that still wind's coming from the south, it can only mean that a storm's coming. The weather forecasters were talking about snow, tomorrow. We've got some extra sweatshirts and coats if you need 'em during the cold."

"I appreciate the offer, sir," Barajas said.

"Oh, please don't 'sir' me," Gary said. "I'm just a petty officer, and that was 10 years ago. I'm definitely not 'sir' material. Call me Gary."

"Daddy, where's Mr. Kendall go?" Gary's 6-year-old daughter, Chaney, had walked outside onto the patio. A portable tank of propane fired up an outdoor cook stove that Gary had set up in the middle of the concrete slab. He had filled the pot with peanut oil, which was beginning to swirl within the pot as the stove heated it up.

"Honey, don't get too close to the cooker," Gary said. "It's getting pretty hot. We'll be starting to cook the turkey, soon."

"Where's Mr. Kendall?" she asked.

_Chaney's not letting up,_ Gary thought. _She's been brimming with questions all morning, especially after the change in shifts. It's not going to take her long to figure out something's going on._

"He and Miss Bhat went to work, and they'll come back tomorrow morning. Have you met Mr. O'Brien, yet?"

She shook her head.

"Well, he's probably asleep. He worked all night and he's staying with us for a few days."

"Why are so many people in our house?"

"They're over here for Thanksgiving," Gary said. "And they'll be staying with us for another week after that."

"Oh," Chaney said, seemingly all right with that explanation. "Okay."

* * *

**Along 55th Street in Mission, Kansas, November 27, 2008**

After taking a bus from Westport, Will, Tasha and Deanna trekked up a concrete sidewalk from the bus stop toward the Tobin home. It was a five-block walk through a mostly residential area, but at least it was on a nice day; warm and humid for November, but a nice break the sun was shining intermittently beneath scrappy clouds that we from late autumn's usual, dreary weather. Scrappy clouds rushed across the sky, driven by a south wind that bespoke low pressure, and a cold front to come.

Deanna was still a bit shaken from the myriad of emotions she felt from other people who were riding the bus. I was a true, mishmash of humanity, with feelings of excitement from riders who were heading to their family's homes, and feelings of anger and sadness from others. A disturbing number of their fellow passengers bore a flat, nearly emotionless projection, the result of mood-altering substances that were popular in the day.

Deanna knew from her counseling history courses that in the early 21st century, accepted practice of many, mental health physicians was to prescribe multiple medications in hopes of numbing emotions that patients could not handle. The overwhelming, social challenges of the era (coupled with resources that often did not mesh well) meant that many patients received medications but had no counseling and no behavioral modification to prevent further episodes.

One man who had sat at the back of the bus got off midway through their ride, and Deanna immediately noticed the man's bug-eyed, paranoid-appearing gaze, and the way his arms swung as he walked.

"Tranquilizers," she said to Will and Tasha, neither of whom had seemed to notice the man's activities. They were used to being around people who were medicated. "That man was under chemical restraint. I'd read that this occurred, but until now I'd never felt it, before."

"Yeah, they pass out pills here like candy," Tasha remarked. "Doctors don't have time to spend with their patients and insurance won't pay for them to learn other coping skills, so they're just drugged."

"That's horrible," Deanna replied.

* * *

**At the Tobin home**

"So this is the heralded turkey fryer that I've heard so much about," Tasha said, walking out the back door and onto the concrete slab, where Gary Tobin and Julio Barajas were chatting about the neighborhood.

"Hey!" Gary said, smiling and raising his bottle of beer. Tasha could tell instantly that this wasn't Gary's first bottle of beer of the day, nor would it be his last. "And it's almost ready to start cooking the bird. Where's Will?"

"He's in the kitchen, helping himself to the libations," she said, nodding to the empty bottles neatly lined up on the concrete-block wall edging the slab. "Looks like he's got some catching up to do."

"Yep, he does," Gary replied. "No one has to be anywhere, there's plenty of food, the game is on and it's a Dallas Cowboys game, so that ought to be interesting . . .I just talked by cell phone to Celice Machias, by the way. She sends her regards. They don't observe Thanksgiving in New Brunswick, but she did want to rub it in that they're having lobster tonight. I guess you can get lobster up there as easily as we can get a good steak here."

She smiled. "I like her already," she said. "I hope I get to meet both of them before we leave. Ensign Barajas, how are you doing in this interesting environment?"

"Culturally, it has been educational," Barajas replied. "The neighbor to the west was already heavily intoxicated by 1030 hours. On top of that, he doesn't have many teeth. And he called me a wetback. Since I don't know what he was talking about, I didn't know whether to be insulted, or to laugh. So I laughed."

_If you only knew, Ensign,_ she thought.

"Well, what he said wasn't flattering," she remarked after a couple of seconds had passed. "But you did the right thing under the circumstances. I wouldn't worry about it. From what Gary's told me about the neighbors, they aren't the ones to be slinging insults."

"They aren't," Gary said. "They're harmless, from what we can tell. But Kim and I are convinced that they breed their own stock, if you know what I mean. They were THE reason why I sprung my own money to build a fence on a rental property."

"Why didn't you just move?" Tasha asked.

"Well, we've thought about it," Gary replied. "We're got a two-year lease on the house, but Kim and I had talked about renting somewhere else if this rescue mission hadn't gone through. Hopefully Gavin can help fix those retros and then we won't need to worry about it."

He glanced into the pot. "I think this oil is ready. Where's Will? He wanted to learn how to do this."

Tasha stuck her head inside the back door and found Will standing at the counter, rooting through the utensils jammed into one of the kitchen drawers. He looked up at her she stepped inside the house.

"Hey, do you know where they keep the bottle openers?" he asked.

"You need an _opener_?" she asked, incredulous.

He held up a sealed bottle of Boulevard. "These aren't twist-ons," he said.

She shook her head, and took the bottle right out of his hand, then slammed it downward against the edge of the counter. The cap popped off in her hand.

"Here," she said. "Cheers. And Gary's about to boil the turkey."

"That's frying, not boiling," he replied, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, even as embarrassment crept across his face. "Thanks for opening the bottle."

"You're welcome!" she said. "Would you like chips with that?"

He wagged the bottle at her even as a smile broke across his face, then took two steps down from the back door to the back porch. Gary was reaching for the turkey, which was sitting on its hindquarters while skewered on a cooking platform that fit the 60-quart pan. Barajas remained outside to watch, just as interested as Will in the cooking process.

"You ready?" Gary said, hoisting the turkey from its carrying pan. "Stand back . . .you've got to put these things in slowly, otherwise they'll spatter."

As he slowly lowered the marinated turkey into the heated oil, the pot vibrated from the force of five gallons of hot peanut oil reacting to raw meat.

"So, how long does it cook like that?" Will said.

"Well, this is a 9-pound bird," Gary said, setting an old-fashioned, kitchen timer. "Three and a half minutes per pound, so a little over 31 minutes."

"And you just leave it in there? You don't need to turn it over?"

"No, the oil covers the whole thing," Gary explained. "The first year I did this, I overcooked it, but it was still very good. Last year's was great even without the marinade. This year, we marinated it and used the same stuff that Kim's workplace used when they cooked theirs, so it should be pretty good. If it's not, well, we can blame it on Kim."

As if on cue, the back door opened, and Kim stuck her head out the door. "So, I didn't hear any explosions, yet," Kim said. "Are you really frying the turkey, or do I need to turn on the oven?"

"Nope, it's cooking," Gary said. "Nothing exploded."

"I'm putting the rolls in," she said. "We can just keep them warm after they come out. Other than that, everything else is ready. Oh, and Miles O'Brien is awake. He's taking a shower."

Gary nodded and smiled. "Thanks, hon," he said.

"I take it there was an explosion at some point," Barajas remarked.

"Yeah, but not here," Gary said. "About four doors down the street, they were frying several of them last year and I guess their friends were bringing turkeys for them to cook. One of 'em wasn't thawed out, and it blew up, spattered hot grease on a couple of people. We heard them hollering and ran over to help. One of them needed to go to U-Med but he wound up being fine."

"The culinary tips I'm learning here," Will remarked. "You know, right before I came out here, Tasha just taught me something else I didn't know."

"Oh, yeah? What was that?" Gary said.

"How to remove bottle caps without using an opener," he said.

Gary stood straight up and stared at him. "She didn't pop that thing off against my kitchen counter, did she?"

"She did," Will said.

"Normally, I'd be irritated," Gary replied. "But since—God willing—we're slipping out of here and I'm not going get my deposit back, anyway, I'll let it pass this time."

"But if we don't get out of here, she'll owe you."

"Nah, we'll call it even," Gary said. "I owe her a lot more than she owes me."

* * *

"—really want to see what the Holidays in this century are really all about?" Kim was saying to Deanna, in the midst of a conversation that bore as much laughter as it did anything. She had just put the cooked rolls into a covered bowl to keep them warm while the turkey was cooling outside. Gary had just pulled it out of the oil. "We all need to go to Wal-Mart at 0500 tomorrow."

"Yeah, have fun with that," Tasha remarked, and Kim began laughing.

"What's so funny?" Deanna asked.

"The day after Thanksgiving is the ultimate shopping experience," Kim said. "Wal-Mart, or the mall. Actually, we should go to the mall tomorrow morning."

"Will and I have already been to a mall," Tasha said, shaking her head. "It was horrible. Crowded, expensive, salespeople wouldn't leave us alone—I can't stand shopping. I'd almost rather do anything else besides shopping. So, Will liked the mall better than I did . . . actually, he _really_ liked one store. He went in there willingly. He insists he was lured."

"What happened?" Deanna asked.

"We were walking through the mall, taking in the sights, trying not to run into people who were yakking on their cell phones or texting and not paying attention," Tasha said. "And all of a sudden, Will was no longer beside me. He disappeared, just like that."

Deanna already was smiling because she recognized the inherent sarcasm. She also knew Will Riker well enough to know what the attraction had to be. She heard the back door open and sensed that Will was walking inside, and he leaned out of the kitchen and glanced into the living room, curious what could be so funny.

"—within 30 seconds, I located him in a store full of naked, female mannequins, each of them wearing see-through, lacey, frilly underthings that could not possibly fulfill the purpose that underthings are made for," Tasha was explaining, even as Deanna lost her battle against laughing, and not just because she knew Will was standing right behind Tasha as she described what had happened.

"These outfits looked itchy, and they covered _nothing_," Tasha said, then sensed what Deanna already knew. "He's standing right behind me, isn't he?"

"Ah, the Victoria's Secret story," Will smiled at the memory. "This is a great century . . ."

"Victoria's Secret," Kim laughed, turning to Deanna to explain. "It's a store that's full of naughty lingerie."

"They have a fantastic catalog, too," Will nodded. "If we weren't leaving, I'd be getting on that mailing list."

"And they wanted $30 for one piece of underwear that didn't even have a crotch!" Tasha exclaimed. "What was the point? I thought it was a tag typo. Thirty dollars, for something that does . . . nothing!"

"Oh, it does plenty," Will interjected.

"And here's the best part," Tasha continued. "I practically dragged Will out of this store—,"

"She did," Will admitted. "I thought about having a tantrum but I didn't want to do that to her."

"—past one of these mannequins that was barely dressed with these outfits," Tasha said. "And Will said looked at them and said, 'That would look great on the floor, too'."

* * *

After those in the house had made gluttons of themselves over turkey, potatoes, green beans and rolls, they relaxed in the living room. A football game was on the television. As soccer aficionados, Barajas and O'Brien weren't familiar with the American version of what they knew as football. It bore little similarity to the sport they'd grown up playing in Mexico and Ireland.

"Looks like rugby with helmets and padding," O'Brien remarked. "What fun is that?"

"Some of those players weigh 150 kilos," Gary said. "I'd want an entire mattress wrapped around me before I got crunched by one of those guys."

Four-year-old Piper was sitting on Will's lap, with Chaney sitting beside him. They were on Gary and Kim's laptop computer, watching YouTube downloads of The Swedish Chef. Gary had originally found the old Muppet Show series while he was surfing the Internet one night, and was entertained enough that he let his children watch it. Kim wasn't very impressed, but no matter.

"Is this going be a good to eat?" Piper asked, not entirely convinced that the characters on the show were doing things the right way. Already, the chef had to ask cows to leave the kitchen, and he'd used a shotgun to shred a head of lettuce. Nothing looked very appetizing.

"I don't think so," Will replied, playing along with Piper's game. "He's trying to make pancakes...oh, no, they're sticking to the ceiling."

Piper giggled, still clinging to her beloved, stuffed rabbit toy, tattered both by a 4-year-old's devotion and by weekly visits to the washing machine.

"The Swedish Chef has issues in the kitchen," Will explained to Deanna, who was perplexed at what was so funny about food flying in the air. "He's not necessarily the best chef in the world."

"Can we watch another one?" Chaney begged.

_So easily entertained by slapstick humor, so innocent of how her own world would be changing within a few days,_ Will thought. _She might as well enjoy it now._


	23. Chapter 23

**Future's Past 23**

* * *

**Will Riker's personal log, written Saturday morning, November 29, 2008**

_With repairs in full swing, those of us who aren't rotating through shuttle detail or fulfilling our employment obligations continue to reside here on Earth. Since there's always a possibility that repairs won't be successful, we can't be too careful. Here in the 21st century, a recession has sucked the job market dry. We don't want to be stuck here without work._

_So we're working on a "disappearing act", planning things out. Gary and Kim Tobin have a considerably more difficult task than Tasha and I do. Gavin Machias has agreed to help with the repairs and so far has been invaluable with assessing what's needed. He's also been insistent about not returning with us. I don't understand that, but we need him to help us._

_Last night actually was the best evening so far. I took everyone to Nichols for the evening. I was in there and I wasn't even working. Deanna especially had a great time. She and Kim Tobin will be aboard the shuttle tomorrow, so I wanted to make sure we went on a night when good music would be playing. I think she genuinely enjoyed being there. I know Immanuel got a kick out of meeting her._

_Of course, Tasha the Matchmaker HAD to pull him aside. And she tried to lower her voice and even put her hand up so she wouldn't be overheard, but it was plain as day to me: "She's the one! Will and Deanna are meant for each other."_

"_Then you got to stop letting him screw other women!" Immanuel said, loudly. Everyone within 20 feet heard it, including those at our table. Immanuel was enjoying this immensely, Tasha turned beet-red. "I keep telling him, he's gonna get a disease or he's gonna knock someone up," he continued. "And then he'd be owing child support to Miss Right Now."_

_I think Deanna laughed harder than anyone else did. _

_The joke was turned around on her, but even Tasha still had to smile a bit, nodding 'OK, you got me'. She and Immanuel have a mutual respect for each other. Neither of them is afraid to go there, especially if it's about me. I'm just glad she's loosening up. She's grown so much. If this had happened 22 months ago, she'd have crawled underneath the stage. _

_But last night, she just sat back down at the table and grabbed the menu. She initially pretended that everything was just great, even as Suravi Bhat bit the insides of her mouth to keep from smiling, and Julio Barajas held his hand in front of his mouth to keep from laughing in her face. Tasha is his CO, after all. _

"_So," Tasha said, nodding in my direction. "What's the special tonight, fried ham?"_

_Barajas finally lost what was left of his composure; Bhat kicked him under the table. _

"_That was a great special, wasn't it?" I finally replied._

"_Wonder what stand-up dish Immanuel has planned for dessert?" she remarked. _

_I leaned forward and said, "Cheesecake."_

* * *

**Aboard the stealth shuttle, Saturday, November 29, 2008**

Deanna was as excited as Louden Kendall was about piloting the shuttlecraft. She rarely got to use her piloting skills, either. She had beamed up at 0805, and Kim was beamed up from her home at 0807. They had a short "shift change" from O'Brien and Machias, catching up on the sluggish pitch and the engine balance. The port engine had been shut off.

"Well, that should make things interesting," Deanna replied.

"You going to be all right piloting with one engine?" O'Brien asked.

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Deanna replied. "This trip has been a great opportunity to review operations and navigation."

"I thought so," O'Brien said. "Beats sitting in a simulator."

Kim was excited about seeing Gavin Machias for the first time in 9 years, and Deanna felt he was genuinely glad to see her, too. Hugs were had, pictures of their children were shown around. Kim strategically opted to not discuss Gavin's decision to not return, as the shuttle was at risk for another debris strike. Deanna beamed both O'Brien and Machias to New Brunswick, where O'Brien would assist with repairs. _They seem to be getting along well_, she mused to herself.

And even before the shuttle had reached the surface of the moon, Kim recognized several features of the moon.

"Wow, Luna without windows or lights," she said. "It looks so empty! There aren't even any tethers out there! Hard to believe it ever looked like this."

"This is a genuine treat for you to be aboard, today, isn't it?" Deanna remarked.

"I'd imagine this is how Louden Kendall felt when he saw today's Kansas City," she said. "I'd never been to KC in the 24th century, but I'm sure it's very different. I can't imagine that half the buildings there today will be there in 350 years."

After the shuttle landed, Kim showed Deanna several features on Luna, telling stories about field trips, about her mother, about her disappointment that she couldn't continue nursing in the 21st century. But she added that she has little desire to continue doing so in the 24th century.

"Ten years have passed since I've practiced," Kim said. "I'm sort of a relic. And the thing is, I'm not that disappointed about it. My mother will be. Well, she was disappointed that I got into nursing in the first place. She wanted to brag that I was 'more important' than that, but I loved it while I was doing it."

"And now?"

"I was really horrified by what I saw here in the hospitals, here," she said. "I couldn't hack that. It was just too depressing. I used to come home in tears, and finally I quit and went to school for something else. And now . . . I really enjoy being with my kids. I'm an old-fashioned mom. I'd love to stay home with them."

"There's nothing old-fashioned about the most important job in the universe," Deanna said.

"What about you? Do you have any kids?"

"No, not yet."

"You married?"

"No."

"When you have kids everything changes," Kim said. "You just want to be there for them. My biggest fear with going back is the pressure that kids feel in the 24th century. I don't remember being able to play nearly as much as my kids have been able to play. I'm worried about how long it'll take for them to catch up academically."

"You're nervous about your mother," Deanna remarked, unable to ignore the strong feelings of apprehension.

"Oh my God, yes," Kim said. "I'm glad you're empathic. Makes things easier."

"Gary seems inwardly troubled about my being an empath."

"He's a guy," Kim laughed. "Gary's very laid back, he doesn't like the thought of anyone telling him how he ought to be. He just is."

"That's an admirable quality," Deanna remarked. "He can teach high-strung people a thing or two in the 24th century."

"He loves what he does. It's hard work, but he likes listening to people and figuring out what makes them tick. He's thought about going to school for psychology, but he says he never did well in school, so he just didn't go."

"You're worried about your mother," Deanna pressed.

"I'm worried she's going to insult him," Kim said. "She's always been more focused on what people do, instead of being grateful for who they are. Gary would rather be in the background. He doesn't want the attention on him. He likes what he does, he likes who he is, he'd like to learn more but if he stays where he is, that's OK with him. She's going to see that, and probably freak out. This is going to sound really awful, but I hope my disappearance mellowed her. I couldn't imagine how my life would be without Gary and the girls."

They spoke for hours, occasionally giggling like schoolgirls over the various antics of Gary Tobin, Will Riker, Tasha Yar and Gavin Machias. It made time pass quickly for the 24 hours they were assigned to staff the shuttle while others on the team could continue researching where they would find parts to repair the shuttle, and also have much-needed downtime to prevent a fatigue-induced mistake that might cost them their lives during the return journey.

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, Saturday, November 29, 2008**

Will felt himself dragging even before he'd finished climbing the stairs to the apartment. It was only 2000 hours, but he was exhausted after 10 hours on his feet. Saturdays were always busy, with people coming in throughout the day to hear music sets and dine. He'd had the "civic crowd" at his tables that afternoon and evening, and they'd stayed for five hours, yapping about the election that had been held nearly a month ago. The country might have seemed fired up about a new president, but this crowd was hacked off about the more regional and local races. So they plotted and argued, treating the live band as if they were background music.

He hadn't expected a light to be on in the apartment when he got to his floor. Tasha must have gotten back early from The Rec, he thought. That happened, sometimes when she did shifts there. Sometimes they shut down the office early. She was supposed to have left at 2100 hours.

He opened the door, and barely saw her walking abruptly down the hall and slamming the bathroom door behind her.

"When you've got to go, I guess you've got to go," Will muttered, and then he heard the sink's squeaky water faucet being cranked on. His brow furrowing, he walked quietly to the bathroom door, and then knocked.

"You all right?" he asked, raising his voice a bit to be heard over the running water.

"I'm fine," she replied, her voice muffled. She didn't sound fine, and several minutes later she emerged, not even glancing at Will as she retreated again, this time to the kitchen.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Will said, following her.

"Nothing," she said, yanking a glass from the cabinet and filling it up with water.

"Bullshit," he replied. She's changed into her usual t-shirt and shorts as if she were getting ready for bed as usual, and her hairline was damp from where she'd washed or splashed water across her face. But her red-rimmed eyes said otherwise, and she hurriedly drank from the glass as soon as if filled with water.

"So, how was your night?" she said, trying in vain to change the subject.

"How was _your_ night?" he asked, genuinely worried.

"I asked you, first."

_All right, fine,_ he thought. "Well, I waited on Kansas City's right-wing underground half the night," he replied. "They might have been on the other end of the spectrum. I don't know. But they complained about everything and were lousy tippers."

She made a face. "I'm sorry."

"So what happened?" he asked, cutting to the chase. "And don't say 'nothing' again, because you're a terrible liar. You look like you've been crying your eyes out."

"Thanks," she said, putting the empty glass into the sink. "I'm going to bed."

"Well, that told me plenty," he said as she walked past him enroute to the bedroom. "What happened? You're scaring me."

"Just an awful day," she said, crawling into her bed and slipping beneath the sheet. "I'm sorry you saw this. I'll be fine. I just need some sleep."

Will stared at her from the doorway, mostly shocked, because this was so unlike her. She wasn't the type to wallow in anything. _What the hell happened?_ He thought. Even in his relative confusion over what had upset her so much, he realized that she didn't have a blanket on her bed. Ever the giver, Tasha had loaned her blanket to Deanna the night before, so it was still on the couch. He retrieved it and returned to find Tasha curled up on her side, facing away from him. She'd pulled the sheet up over herself but kept her arms outside it, and they were folded up in front of her.

He sat on the edge of her bed, still holding the blanket. She didn't move, but he knew she wasn't asleep.

"Thought you'd want a blanket," he said. "You tend to get cold without it."

"Thanks," she replied, still facing away from him. "Deanna borrowed it, last night."

"When was the last time you actually got any sleep?"

"I don't remember."

"Do you want to talk?"

She shook her head.

"Do you want me to leave?"

She paused for a few seconds. "No, I don't want you to leave," she finally said.

Months ago, she might have shoved him clear across the room if he'd even sat on her bed while she was in it. But now, as he spread the blanket over her, he laid on his side beside her. He reached over her, gently nudging her back against him. After nearly two years, the gesture didn't feel inappropriate. It seemed like best friends being there for each other.

"This OK?" he whispered.

She nodded, seemingly not noticing that her chin-length hair was tousled across her eyes. He half-propped himself up on one elbow, then reached with that hand to brush her hair away from her face.

"My mother used to do that," she said. "She used to pull my hair back out of my face when I was pretending to be asleep."

Spooned up beneath a blanket, but with a sheet separating them, Tasha was appreciative of a comforting embrace as she was of being warmer than she had been. His left arm draped securely over her side and rested over her own, folded-up arms.

"What happened, Tash?" he whispered.

"This shouldn't still be an issue," she replied, tears edging her voice. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing's wrong. You're tired, you're human. If it's bothering you now, it's been impacting you for awhile," he said. _What the hell kind of BS was that?_ he thought_, I sound like an idiot._ He fleetingly wished Deanna wasn't on the shuttle, tonight. But just as soon as that thought hit him, he suddenly was glad that Deanna wasn't here.

With her empathic and counseling abilities, Deanna might have been able to cajole awful memories out of Tasha Yar a lot more efficiently than Will could. But Will knew Tasha well enough to understand that as honest as she was, she'd share the tough stuff with anyone who ordered it. But she wouldn't necessarily share the details that might make listeners care about that tough stuff. She didn't appreciate being interrogated.

He suspected there was a lot that even he didn't know about her, and Will knew more about her than anyone else did.

"So today, this girl came into the Rec, and we all knew she was a 'working girl' and that she was tweaking from meth," Tasha said, her voice soft but blunt. "She was screaming in the bathroom, so I went in there, and there was blood all over the floor, bloody handprints on the walls, dead baby in the toilet. It was too small, and it was—you could smell it. It had been dead for awhile but she'd just now delivered it. I tried to help her, but she started her Midtown victim crap, you know, 'I've had it bad and now you owe me'. I tried to help her and she said, 'what the fuck do you know about anything, have you ever been raped, you ever had a dead baby, you ever had nowhere to sleep', and I said that yes, I had all those things happen to me and I did understand. I figured that if I was brutally honest it would diffuse it, but things just got worse. EMS showed up, and she was still yelling at me while they were wheeling her out to the ambulance."

_Did she say, 'I have had all those things happen to me'?_ Will thought. _Including the dead baby part? _

"KCPD showed up, took pictures, fished that dead kid out of the toilet, put it in a red bag, and chucked it in the back of the patrol car and drove away," she said. "And LaDonna and I cleaned up the rest of the mess, shut down the office, I got on the bus and came home."

"I'm sorry," he finally said as her words registered and everything started to make sense. He went with his assumption. "I didn't know you'd lost a child."

"Three," she said.

"_Three?" _

"Miscarriages and forced abortions," she said. "That's reality. There was no birth control, especially for us. It's not like I wanted to be pregnant, so I should be over it. I don't know what's wrong with me, tonight."

"Nothing's wrong with you," he said.

She didn't say anything else, for a few seconds, and Will could sense that her silence was suppressive. Now, he understood. She wasn't afraid of losing her composure in front of him. That wasn't the issue, anymore. Now, she was afraid that if she began crying again, she might not be able to stop.

"I don't even know how old I was the first time it happened," she said. "I don't know, old enough. I hadn't been feeling good, so that next morning I didn't bring back anything to pay my way. And the boss beat me up, kicked my ribs and stomach and legs, just wherever, and then he left me there on the ground. I started having really bad pains . . . I thought I was bleeding to death. I hadn't even known I was pregnant. It was about as big as my fist, not alive. I just remember realizing what had happened, and hoping that maybe I'd bleed to death, and I'd die with it. I really, really wanted to die."

Will pressed his mouth against the back of her head. _Just let her talk,_ he thought, his other arm involuntarily holding her a bit tighter than before. He felt her fingers touching his, and his hand gently clasped hers.

"And I don't remember whether it was the second one or third one, but I was . . . with a client, and he was just really, really violent. I started cramping and bleeding and he wouldn't stop," she said. "That was the worst one, mostly because I knew what was going on, that time."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm really sorry that this happened to you."

"That's the thing," she replied. "I don't want people feeling sorry for me. That's why I don't talk about this."

"There's a difference between pitying, and truly wishing that something awful hadn't happened to someone," he remarked.

"One way to look at it," she shrugged.

"What I'm trying to say is that I wish these things hadn't happened to you, and I'm sorry that they did," he said. "And I wish I knew what else I could do."

"Just what you're doing," she said, as he pulled her closer, their fingers entwined. "Thank you."

"Glad I could help," he said. "Besides, I owe you one."

She turned her head slightly. "How do you owe me one?"

"If it weren't for you, I'd still be lying on the waiting room floor," he replied. "Or I'd be dead from overdosing on Lortabs."

_The burns on his arms,_ she thought. "Oh, yeah, I remember that," she remarked, recalling how she sat up against the hospital waiting room wall with him propped up in her arms, holding him up off the floor because there were no waiting room seats left. After he'd been treated and had returned to the apartment, he'd taken too many pain pills. She'd stayed up most of the night, actually lying in his bed with him, jostling him to breathe and watching over him while the drugs wore off. "There's a blast from the past."

"Literally," he said, shutting his own eyes. He remembered the pain from those burns, but couldn't imagine the level of anguish Tasha had been carrying all these years. He kept his now healed, left arm around her, in a protector's embrace.

"I'm sorry I lost it, tonight," she said. "Just when I need to be getting myself together. So much for being professional."

"You can lose it in front of me," he said. "We've earned the pass to lose our composure in front of each other. I did the same thing not too long ago. There's too much history, here."

She nodded, but didn't say anything. He could tell that regardless of what he'd said, she was tamping her emotions down, already. _It's her way,_ he thought. _She's got to do what she's got to do._

"You going to be all right?" he whispered into her hair after a minute had passed.

"Yeah, I'm just tired," she replied, and her voice bore that fatigue.

"Me, too," he said. "Is it OK if I stay where I'm at?"

She nodded. "Thank you," she said, then remembered something else. "Did you remember to take your shoes off?"

"Yes," Will replied, smiling. "Yes, I did, this time. Oh, and the alarm's set for 0600."

Tasha nodded, and fell asleep long before Will did, his arm was draped gently over her side. He could feel her heart beating through her back as she relaxed against him, her breaths slowing in slumber and the secure sensation that someone really did have her back. He dozed off, hoping that with all the flashbacks regularly knifing through her mind, this one would be added: A memory of feeling warm and protected, and being somewhat at peace.


	24. Chapter 24

**Future's Past 24**

* * *

**Will & Tasha's apartment, Kansas City, Missouri, Sunday, November 30, 2008, 0530 hours**

The people still slept, spooned up on the bed where the cat normally snuggled next to the human who had rescued him. But since that human had opted to share her bed with the other human who lived there, the cat had no option but to rest elsewhere. He chose to do that on the other bed, knowing damn well that the man didn't want a cat on the bed.

So the cat curled up on the man's pillow, then decided that was a great place for grooming, then slept for awhile, then stretched, slept some more. Then he knew it was time for the humans to get up.

He crept across the room and jumped onto the other bed, quietly walking onto the other side of the sleeping people. They hadn't budged much since they fell asleep the night before, both lying on their sides, his arm protectively over her side.

The cat stared at both humans. They looked comfortable. But it was Time To Feed The Cat.

KC's fur bristled a bit, and a low, purring meow designed as both wake-up and threat. Get up, or I'll do other things.

Initially, neither Will nor Tasha moved, but after the cat's second yowl, they both stirred.

The sensation of being warm and next to someone came next, and Tasha had a microsecond of the same type of internal panic that hit The Morning After a one-night stand. But then she remembered it hadn't been that kind of night. _OK, we're both dressed, he's on top of the sheet, I'm under it..._relieved, she relaxed even as Will's arm involuntarily tightened around her as they were jarred again by another, plaintive wail from the cat sitting only inches from their faces.

KC was stepping it up. _Please, feed me! I'm shriveling up! I've had nothing in my stomach since I hacked up another cricket at the foot of your bed!_

"What time is it?" Will muttered, glancing at the still-dark window.

_It's time to feed the cat! Get up!_ KC had had enough of this. It was bad enough, that he'd been booted from his normal sleeping place by the Other Guy. Yelling at them hadn't produced the desired results, so KC moved in for Phase Two of the wake-up game. He smeared his cold nose across the man's arm.

"Hey!" Will abruptly moved his arm away.

"Did he slime you?" Tasha asked, her voice still groggy even though she was awake.

"Yes, he did," Will said. "It's only 0530. Here, have some cat snot," he said, wiping his arm against her side.

"Oh, thanks," she said.

The cat meowed again, then head-butted Tasha's arm, half-intent on pushing them both out of the bed so they would stand up, walk to the kitchen, get into the cabinet, open the can...

"KC, for God's sake," she muttered.

"You brought him in here," Will remarked, teasing.

"I know," she replied, relaxing as Will embraced her, again, remembering the night before. She'd had a horrible day that had reminded her of horrible things she preferred not to think about, and had hoped she could retreat to the apartment to diffuse. But he'd gotten back earlier than usual, and she was busted as she was pulling herself back together.

She'd tried to pretend everything was fine. _How like her, fake a perfectly normal conversation with me until I mention the tears brimming in her eyes,_ he thought. Confronted, she had retreated to the bedroom and crawled into her bed. Will had been shaken by seeing his best friend hurting so much and had laid down next to her and pulling her back into his embrace. She hadn't rebuffed him, but understood it was a completely non-sexual advance intended solely as a comforting gesture. Feeling safe and protected, she finally told him what had upset her so much, and why.

They both were exhausted before her revelation, and it hadn't taken long for them to fall asleep, both of them lulled also by the novelty of having a warm body nearby. _Sometimes I feel like I'm not ready to go anywhere, because I haven't truly dealt with where I've been,_ she'd said to him some months ago during one of their late-night conversations.

They would be going back to the _Enterprise _within days, to separate cabins. As they were jarred awake by her cat in those early morning hours, it struck him how much he'd miss living with her, speaking with her all the time. They were complete opposites, but had become as tight as two people could be without being family, or romantically involved. And they were neither.

"You going to be OK?" he said into her tousled hair.

"Yeah," she replied, then after a few seconds, she whispered, "Thank you."

"Anytime," he said. "You want the shower first?"

She nodded. "Yes, I'm going to be on the shuttle in a few hours," she said, sitting up next to him and shuddering at the cool air. "It's cold in here! Were you warm enough, last night?"

"Oh, yeah," he said, stretching. "I kept my clothes on and I had a heating pad next to me."

Another wail from KC sliced through their conversation, and Tasha hung her head, smiling a bit at both of them.

"Go on, get in the shower," Will said. "I'll get him his food."

* * *

Will stared at the cat that prowled beneath him, scowling upward at the human who held his canned breakfast.

"You really know how to ruin a perfectly great morning," Will muttered.

KC wailed in response.

"So," Will said, opening the can and scraping its mealy contents into a bowl. "This smells awful...what is this, 'ocean fish'? That's your hairy ass . . . it's horsemeat with fish flavoring."

KC was standing on his hind legs, not caring what it was or where it came from. He just wanted his food. Now.

"Are you sure you want this?"

The cat meowed again and clawed upward, deciding that if more teasing ensued, that he would just have to climb the man's legs until he dropped the food. _These claws will come in handy,_ he thought.

"Here you go," Will said, placing the bowl of cat food onto the kitchen floor. KC had already consumed half of it before Will had even crawled back into Tasha's empty bed. Will splayed out beneath the blanket and was asleep again by the time Tasha emerged to rouse him for his turn in the shower.

She sat on the edge of the bed, gently nudging him. "Hey," she said, almost whispering.

His eyes opened, then closed again. "I'll get up in a couple of minutes," he said. "Didn't think I was this tired until I got out of bed to feed the beast."

"The beast appreciated it," she said. "And I appreciated it. I'll let you know when people are about to beam in."

* * *

**Aboard the **_**Enterprise**_**'s stealth shuttle, orbiting above Earth, November 30, 2008**

By 0815, the modified crew exchange was complete. Deanna Troi had beamed down to the apartment and Tasha had been beamed up to the shuttle (with two cups of hot coffee for herself and Lt. Louden Kendall, who had beamed up from the Tobin's after Kim Tobin had beamed down).

"So how have you enjoyed the 21st century?" Tasha asked, relaxing in the co-pilot seat and deferring to his wishes to pilot the shuttle again. Probably best anyway...it's been nearly two years since I've been in a shuttle, she thought, reviewing the instrument panel in front of her.

"It's been interesting," Kendall replied. "I got to go with Gary Tobin to the grocery store, yesterday, and I surreptitiously recorded all of it...the way items were displayed, the choices, the prices, how people used coupons and store cards. Just an incredible opportunity for research into capitalism."

"Commander Riker worked in a grocery store for several months when we first arrived," she said.

"Did he?"

"He can tell you all kinds of stories."

"You said 'worked', past tense?" Kendall said. "Why did he leave?"

"He found work he enjoyed," Tasha said. "Better hours, better pay. Makes a difference. I hope you have a chance to speak more with him about the economy, here. He understands a lot more about it than I do. I know some about the legal and judicial system. And I know how to serve drinks and how to beat people up."

"I thought you were adept at beating people up before you were stranded here," Kendall quipped.

* * *

They chatted for most of the morning after landing on the moon. Tasha was interested to see what groceries had been beamed up with Kendall . . . lots of everything that didn't need refrigeration, power bars, crackers, apples, more peanut butter, bread, canned food...and a can opener.

"Thanks, Gary," Tasha muttered, not wanting a repeat of the early days of her time in the 21st century, when she tried to open a can of stewed tomatoes with a phaser, and got sprayed in the face for her trouble.

Kendall had brought more reading material, newspapers and magazines, recording material to download and a computer tablet to keep track of observations. Tasha didn't have a tablet, and actually had gotten used to writing longhand on one of several, spiral-bound notebooks she'd kept almost since the beginning of being stranded in the 21st century.

The notebooks were full-size, but cheap. They had been purchased in a 10-pack, and were 100 pages, each. So far, she'd filled four of them over months and months. She figured she'd write later, after she'd taken time through the shuttle's computer to catch up on security issues, review procedures. It may have been days for everyone else on the ship, but it had been nearly two years for her. She didn't want to arrive back on the _Enterprise_ unprepared to resume her duties.

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, November 30, 2008**

"So, what happened, last night?" Deanna asked, after she emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and doing her best to towel-dry her hair.

Will drew a breath. He'd known this was coming. He could feel that flicker from her within a minute of her beam-in. He and Deanna had a bond he didn't want to deny, even if they weren't dating, anymore. She must have felt something from him.

"Tasha and I are good friends," he replied. "We talk, and sometimes we need to talk a lot. She had the kind of day yesterday after which she just needed to unload."

"In the same bed," Deanna quipped. "Yours is made, hers isn't—."

"Is that what this is about?" he said. "You think Tasha and I have a sexual relationship."

"Do you?"

"No," he replied. "Since you can sense how I feel, how can you even ask me that?"

"It's a valid question," she replied. "You're both about to return to the _Enterprise_'s chain of command, and that will be asked of both of you, if you can maintain objectivity as her commanding officer."

"So you can say, definitively, that you and Lt. Yar never engaged in an intimate relationship while you were living together," Deanna said.

"I can say that we kissed each other twice, within the same minute, on the corner of 39th and Main Street, which isn't exactly Lover's Lane, and that it stopped there," he replied, looking straight at her. "It didn't feel right, to either of us. A close friendship is more special, and frankly, more important, than a roll in the hay."

"How long ago was that?"

"Almost a year ago," he replied. "Early January, we'd been at the bar, watching a football game, and we'd been drinking, and that's probably a good part of the reason it began in the first place. But we put a stop to it mutually."

"You're telling the truth," Deanna agreed.

Will was irritated. "Of course I'm telling the truth! Why would I lie to you?"

"Because you like women," she replied. "You enjoy us, and you have way about you that's very hard to resist. And frankly, I assumed—erroneously—when we first got here that you and Tasha were roommates with benefits."

"We're roommates," he said. "With none of those benefits."

"So, you dated other people during your time here," Deanna remarked.

"We both did," Will said.

"How did she feel about you seeing other women?"

"I don't think it bothered her until I started bringing them back to the apartment and locking her out, which when I think back on it, was poor judgment on my part," he said. "That was the reason for the two blowup fights we had. She didn't like it. I even accused her of being jealous the first time, but I'd read her wrong. She said she didn't like the 'revolving door issue', as she put it. But then she nailed me to the proverbial wall and said that the real reason I dated multiple women was because they were stand-ins for the woman I really wanted to be with, but couldn't."

Deanna stared at him, then drew in a slow breath, sensing immediately that he was talking about her, and not about his roommate. It was heart-tugging, because part of her still missed the Will Riker she'd known earlier in her life, when they were so in love. "Will—," she began. "Things are complicated enough as it is."

"She brought it up, I didn't," he replied.

"Did you tell her?"

"About what?"

"About us," Deanna said.

"Not the details," he replied. "Just that we ended that phase of our relationship and chose not to continue it even though we work so closely together on the _Enterprise_. She still didn't believe it."

"I'd never regarded Natasha Yar as a matchmaker," Deanna said.

"She insists we're meant for each other," Will remarked. "And I wanted to believe her. During our time here, as 24th century life faded for us, I still never stopped thinking about you. I guess she picked up on that and ran with it."

"Perhaps," Deanna nodded, opting to twist up her hair in its customary bun.

"You should leave it down," Will remarked. "It's not like there are uniform regulations, here."

"You know what will happen if I leave my hair down," she said.

"Well, beyond my needing to fend off every male on the face of the planet?" he teased.

She smiled at him. "If I were to leave my hair down, it would curl up so much that it would look something like that scrubbing pad you use to clean your dishes."

* * *

**Wornall Cafe in Kansas City, Missouri, November 30, 2008, 0845 hours**

Having acquiesced to a loose ponytail, Deanna walked with Will back to the coffee shop for a more relaxed morning meal. Now he and Deanna relaxed at a table, watching the regulars straggle in for Sunday morning coffee. A few of them had purchased newspapers, and now various sections were scattered throughout the shop.

"—grown so much," Will said. "We both have. It was a deviation I'd obviously never planned to take, but at this point, I'm glad I did."

"You have a relationship that has traversed," Deanna said. "I sense a sibling-like relationship, for the most part. I suspect you've had your rivalries, as well."

"Oh yes," Will said. "We butted heads a few times . . .well, more than a few times, but for the most part, we got along."

"You feel protective toward her," she observed.

"Absolutely," he said.

"So, you both come here, a lot."

"Oh, a couple of times each week," he said. "Usually on the weekends, just to . . . be."

Deanna smiled. "Well, I like 'being' very much," she said. "And this is excellent coffee."

"It's a locally owned shop," Will said. "People are friendly, the prices are good. It's not too trendy. I used to go to a shop up the street because it was trendy. I wanted to meet people more than I wanted to drink their coffee. Truth be told, their coffee was awful, and the social pecking order in those places was very demeaning toward someone of my "low social stature". I was just a grocery store worker. They didn't want anything to do with me. The funny thing is, they sat around listening to jazz, but they knew nothing about it. They read poetry and thick literature, but knew nothing about it. The whole thing felt fake. They were there to impress each other."

Deanna nodded, glancing around the shop they were in now. There was nothing fake about this place. They had walked past two people who'd been panhandling outside the front of the restaurant, and Deanna had the distinct impression that they felt welcome, there. Posters and fliers advertising various music acts, readings and other activities that generally fell off the "classic" civic calendar were prominently displayed, here. The barista who'd made Deanna's coffee (and had somehow styled a leaf pattern in the foam topping it) had multiple piercings and tattoos, but felt friendly and honest.

"Tasha latched onto this place almost from the first week we were living in the apartment," Will continued. "This is the kind of place that caters to people who don't fit in anywhere, but they serve a great product. And I hadn't realized that, at first. And then I figured out that's the point of running a business. You've got to serve a good product, or people won't come back. We're in here a couple of times a week."

"So, what else have you learned from your time here?" Deanna said.

Will smiled, then left out a long breath. "What have I learned? Where should I start?"

* * *

_**Enterprise**_** stealth shuttle, on Luna**

After the shuttle set down on the Moon, Tasha Yar and Louden Kendall began talking about Kansas City's so-called, dirty secret: The racial divide that still was very present in an era where civil rights should have erased any such delineations. Kendall had thought that since those laws were passed in the 1960s and fought in the 1970s, that everything was intermeshed by the early 21st century.

Tasha informed him that this was not the case. Kansas City had remained one of the most segregated cities in the United States, a fact often denied by those who didn't live in those neighborhoods and decried by those who refused to leave them because they feared losing their neighborhoods. It wasn't as gang-ridden as many large cities had become, but it was just as violent. Tasha told Kendall that she was convinced the only reason the murder rate wasn't higher was because of that lack of organization.

"People here are out for their own personal gain," she continued. "There's a lot of pride and apathy, and a lot of anger, and it spans multiple generations of becoming accustomed to handouts, and that's all some of them know. It's everything. It's their expectations of themselves and dealing with the low expectations that others have of them, it's politics, it's religion, it's the drug culture, the glorification of being hardened criminals so no one would mess with them . . . and no one who sees crimes as they occur is going to say anything about it, because then they're snitches, and that's like a death warrant. It isn't as cut-and-dried as our history portrayed it. It's ugly, and complicated, and very interwoven with history—hey, what just happened—?"

It was a feeling, more than a noise. There was no jolt that Tasha could detect, just a sudden, creeping feeling of not being as "in her seat" as she should have been. They were on the surface of the moon, so at least there was some gravitational pull, but something definitely wasn't right.

"Oh damn," Kendall said. He could see the instrument console from where he'd been sitting.

"We're losing gravity."

* * *

**JC Nichols Jazz in Kansas City, Missouri, Sunday evening**

After strolling through the Nelson-Atkins gallery with Deanna earlier that afternoon, they also walked through the Country Club Plaza shopping district, which was decked out with Christmas lights and abuzz with shoppers. But by 1600 hours, Will had to go to work at the jazz club.

Deanna came with him, not really wanting to spend her evening alone in the apartment.

Will was delighted to have her there, a familiar face even on a sparse night when few patrons were coming in. A live band wasn't scheduled on Sunday evenings, so that cut down tremendously on the dinner crowd. Will was thankful for that, because his cell phone started vibrating incessantly at around 1930 hours.

"Are you serious?" he said, initially not caring that he was overheard by anyone in the kitchen as he answered a message on his cell phone. "Can O'Brien go up there and fix it . . . maybe due to the earlier impact and something's finally fried out . . .2200 hours."

He ducked out of the kitchen and found Deanna sitting at a table with Immanuel's boyfriend, who had stopped in while Will was in the kitchen. Somehow, Deanna had struck up an animated conversation with Bryce, who was well renowned at Nichols as being a flamboyant motor mouth who shared every notion that crossed his mind. As outspoken as Immanuel was, he was well matched with Bryce.

"So, are they heading back, by now?" Will asked, still on his cell, glancing at the front door.

_Anyone need to be seated? Great, no one's in the entry. _Thankful for the lull in business, he was nonetheless stressed by what he was hearing, and Deanna picked up on that right away. As entertaining Bryce was, she was concerned. She could sense from Will's demeanor and emotions that something was wrong.

* * *

_**Enterprise**_** stealth shuttle**

Kendall contacted Miles O'Brien via communicator, and explained the problem as best he could. O'Brien was on New Brunswick in Gavin Machias' shop, where he was shaving metal from fragments of tungsten that they'd "appropriated" from a United States dealer.

Machias was at work on the ferry. O'Brien knew that he wouldn't be able to talk either officer through this mess. He was dealing with non-technical people. Kendall seemed more understanding of technical specs than Tasha was, but he just didn't have the expertise he needed to help diagnose, let alone fix, an artificial gravity generator.

"Could be more damage that's just now manifesting," O'Brien said. "Is the transporter still working?"

"Yes, it's reading nominal," Kendall said.

"Give me 15 minutes to gather up some tools...they're scattered all over the place down here," O'Brien said. "I need to let Gavin and Celice know what's going on. Can you make it to high-Earth orbit?"

"Yes," Tasha said, "Operationally, we're fine for flight."

"All right," he said. "I'll get a kit together. Contact me at 1820 hours and I'll give coordinates for beam-up."

"Guess we'd better be going," Kendall said. "You want to fly this round?"

"No, you can take this one," Tasha replied, knowing full well that once they left the moon, the dreaded, zero-gravity would take over. She didn't want to be piloting anything at zero-G.

Barely 30 seconds after the shuttle lifted off the moon, Tasha took a long, deep breath. They had strapped themselves into the front, pilot seats so they wouldn't float off into the shuttle interior, and had stowed anything that could float around inside the shuttle into storage cabinets. But even though Tasha was belted to her seat and was exerting every biocontrol trick she knew on herself, her stomach began turning flips within seconds of takeoff.

"You all right?" Kendall said, concerned that he might have a sick flier on his hands. His flight class at Starfleet had outed several of them. But that wasn't a problem, so long as they had a preventative, hypo spray. Two of the people who initially coated the zero-G simulator with vomit later went on to be the best pilots in the group, so long as the had that hypo spray before they went up. Some people just don't do well in zero-G, his flight instructor had said. If they aren't medicated, there's not much you can do about it, beyond hoping they don't have much in their stomachs.

Within seconds, Kendall realized that Natasha Yar was one of those people.

"I'm fine," she lied again, intent on foisting the 'tough security chief' impression. Kendall wasn't convinced. Even in the reflected light, Tasha looked . . . _green._

_Uh oh,_ Kendall thought. "You don't look fine," he said.

"I just need to stop looking out the window," she replied, hoping the denial would throw him off until they'd be in Earth orbit 30 minutes later. They were on one-quarter impulse, so they weren't going anywhere too quickly. She tried shutting her eyes, but that just made everything worse.

"Oh...fuck me," she muttered into her hands, after another minute had passed. Her hands were shielding her face, in a futile attempt to keep her internal world from spinning.

"I beg your pardon?" Kendall said, somewhat shocked. What did she just say? He thought, then stammered, "Uh, I'm married, lieutenant."

"I'm sorry, that was just an expression," she explained, but still didn't open her eyes. "Don't take that literally. It's . . . something that people say here said to express frustration when something's happened that's . . . bad . . ."

"Still not following you," he said, mimicking another 21st century saying he'd already heard while he was in the grocery market. He'd been asking someone—a meat market worker, loading Styrofoam-backed parcels of raw meat—about how the economic market impacted prices for people who consumed animal products. The worker had responded with the now-familiar 'huh?' and had regarded Kendall as if he'd been from another planet, though Kendall had been born only 15 kilometers away . . . albeit in a structure that wouldn't be constructed for 300 more years.

It had been a humbling moment for Kendall, who'd always thought he could get by in any phase of Kansas City's history. But that hadn't been the case. Kendall had always been someone of an oddball even in the 24th century. He was driven by historical research, and had discovered that those viewings often were as skewed as 24th century society mandated they be. He had been relieved to find honesty in the past, even if that century hadn't documented it for future generations because they'd been more afraid of offending people than they were of telling the truth.

In this case, the truth had everything to do with pride. Lt. Yar was spacesick, and could have cared less for history, at that point.

"I take it you're not a zero-G fan," Kendall remarked.

She just shook her head, admitting it without a problem, by then. "I hate zero-G," she said in one breath, hoping she wouldn't also exhale what she'd eaten. Tasha only wanted to return to her bed so she could curl up and forget that gravity was lacking in space.

Kendall placed the shuttle on autopilot, unhooked his harness, and floated into the back of the shuttle.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I'll be back," he said. "I'm getting something." She could hear him digging through one of the storage cabinets, and smiled when she heard another aw damn escape his mouth before he floated back to the cockpit.

"All right, here's an airsick bag, and here's something else that should take the edge of the nausea," Kendall said, handing her a dill pickle had been vacuum-packed in plastic.

"What is it?" she opened one eye but didn't want to look at anything, by then.

"It's a pickle," Kendall said. "Just eat it. It'll make you feel better. Really."

She groaned. Of all the things it could have been, why did it need to be a pickle? She thought.

"It'll help!" he said. "My wife ate them when she was pregnant with our son. It helps alleviate nausea."

"So does a hypo spray," Tasha remarked.

* * *

Ordinarily, the threat of utter embarrassment would have driven Tasha Yar to suck up any injury and pretend nothing was wrong, or just play it down. But this was different. There was nothing worse than being spacesick in zero-G, nothing more uncomfortable than being so nauseated she couldn't focus on anything around her. She kept the space sickness bag firmly clutched in her hands, because it she threw up and that bag wasn't ready to catch it, vomit would float everywhere, then wind up all over the bulkhead walls, the ceiling . . .

"She all right?" O'Brien was saying asked, just after he'd beamed up. She had actually ingested half a pickle and had kept it down, but the spacesick bag was held firmly in her other hand. She immediately envied his ability to go from Earth gravity to zero-G instantaneously when he materialized aboard the shuttle.

"She'll be fine once gravity returns," Kendall said. "I don't even know where the gravity unit is—,"

O'Brien fixed the gravity generator within 30 minutes, good-naturedly chatting with Kendall the whole time. They spoke about all the real seafood that O'Brien had been inhaling while he was in New Brunswick, plus he'd been to the pub last night with Gavin, keeping up appearances as Gavin's second cousin.

"They're good people," O'Brien said. "Hardy, humble. They work hard, but they love their home. They love being on the water."

He found the problem quickly. Though the portside hull had remained intact from the debris strikes, the impact jostled several structures inside, including the replicator. Initial checks of the gravity unit had read normal, but the impact had in fact damaged an attachment clip holding on the unit's cover. After several trips back and forth to the moon, the clip had broken and the cover had loosened enough that two of the control chips had wiggled out of their slots.

"This was a relatively easy fix," O'Brien said. "I'm glad at least something was easy, this time around."

"How are the engine repairs coming along?"

"I'll be bringing two edges up, tomorrow," O'Brien said. "And the shaft, also. If those work, the rest should work, too . . . OK, brace yourself, I'm going to put this chip back in . . ."

Kendall righted himself, making sure his feet were underneath him, then hollered a warning to Lt. Yar, who in her spacesick misery had folded herself up in the co-pilot's chair.

"Here goes," O'Brien said, putting the last chip into place, and within two seconds, both men were standing on the shuttle floor, each blinking their eyes as they oriented themselves to their own body weight.

"You all right, Lieutenant?" O'Brien called out.

"I'm wonderful now, thanks," came the reply.

Kendall shook his head, unable to hide a slight grin, while O'Brien laughed outright. "Glad to hear that, lieutenant," he said. "I think you're set for the shift."

Tasha unhooked her shoulder harnesses and walked to the rear compartment, grateful for gravity.

"Doing all right?" Kendall asked.

"Getting better," Tasha replied. "Just walking around is helpful."

"You'll be all right for the remainder of the shift?"

"Yes, I will," she replied, reluctant to admit that the bites of pickle actually had helped. "Once I reorient to which way is up."

* * *

**Nichols Jazz in Kansas City, Sunday night**

While straightening up vacated tables, Will Riker seemed more 'smiley' than usual, like an absent prankster who wished he'd been present when a big joke was pulled on someone. At the time, it wasn't funny to know that the shuttle had lost gravity. But after O'Brien fixed the problem within 30 minutes, he relaxed, and even laughed at bit that Tasha Yar was the one to have been aboard the shuttle in Zero-G.

Prone to motion sickness when she wasn't pre-medicated with an anti-vertigo hypo, Tasha had a tendency toward getting airsick and spacesick. Will knew she must have just loved her time floating through the shuttle before O'Brien had repaired the gravity simulator.

"You know," Deanna said from her table. "You're getting so much enjoyment out of this situation, almost like a brother would delight in something embarrassing that had happened to his sister."

"As soon as I heard they'd lost gravity, I knew she'd be sick," he said. "But the funny part, to me, is that Lt. Kendall actually got her to eat a pickle. I would have paid real money to see that."

"Why is that funny?" Deanna was perplexed.

"Tasha hates pickles. She hates sauerkraut, preserves . . . anything with that flavor. It's the only thing that she won't eat. She'll eat anything else . . . she ate stuff that she dug out of the trash. But since the day after we got here, when she practically gagged up a sliced pickle that came off some barbecue that we raided from the garbage, she won't eat pickles. So I think it's tremendously funny, frankly, that she would eat one when her stomach must have been turning somersaults."

Deanna gave him The Look.

"What?" he asked, then joked. "It's as if you can read my mind."

One of her eyebrows shot up.

"So, on our way back to the apartment, we need to stop by the grocery store," he announced.

* * *

**Along Main Street in Kansas City, Missouri, 2300 hours**

"I guess I'm somewhat surprised you aren't involved with each other," Deanna said. They were walking back to the apartment after the club closed at 2200 hours, or "10 p.m.," as they said in the 21st century. Deanna still struggled with those time differences. They had stopped by a grocery market on the way to the apartment, and now strolled leisurely in the streetlights.

"Why does that surprise you?" Will remarked.

"Because I know you," she replied. "But I sense something different between the two of you, a great deal of history, but nothing beyond superficial flirting, even though you're living together."

"Well, I'll be matter-of-fact, here," Will said. "Tasha and I did not easily reach this current point. We misunderstood each other. We fought, literally woke the apartment complex a couple of times, yelling at each other. She's intense, I'm intense. She got so mad at one point that she moved out for three weeks and lived on the street. And for the first couple of days, I didn't miss her at all."

"And then you did," she said, sensing his memory.

"Yeah, then I did," he said.

"You went looking for her," she continued.

"I figured I'd stop by the 43rd so we could chat, and almost three weeks had passed, by then," he remembered. "I found her in the back bathroom, sicker than anything I'd ever seen, even in a bar. She looked horrible . . . long story short, she'd witnessed someone being shot to death, tried to help him, and wound up having infected blood sprayed in her face. One of the clinics here put her on some potent medicine that supposedly might prevent her from getting this infection, and the medicine made her sick."

"Is this the HIV identification that Kim told me about?" Deanna said. "That was how she figured out who you were."

"Yeah, I guess she's already filled you in on that," Will replied.

"On the identification part, but not on the other parts. Not on the Will and Tasha parts."

"Well, when she told me what she'd been exposed to, I was terrified," Will said. "Everything I'd heard about HIV was bad. She was upset, but at that point, something in me just snapped, and the thought of losing her like that was terrifying to me. And ever since then, yes, we're close. Tasha's become one of the best friends I've ever had."

"Something happened last night," she said. "A revelation, something wrenching."

"Yes . . ." Will replied, somewhat wary. "We've had our moments."

"You were comforting her because she was upset, and not because there was anything else going on."

"Sometimes I'm grateful you can sense emotions, but sometimes it's . . ."

"You're protective of her," she said. "And protective of secrets she's shared with you."

He looked away, but nodded. "It's helpful when you paraphrase."

"You know her secrets," Deanna said.

"And she knows quite a few of mine," he replied. "Even if she didn't, I wouldn't discuss her business any more than I would discuss your business."

"I did sense a deep gratitude from her, this morning," Deanna said. "The gratitude of someone who has just had a tremendous weight lifted from her shoulders."

"Something like that," Will said. He was reluctant to say much more.

"I hope severely that you will discuss your upcoming return with her, and soon," Deanna said. "This will be a huge adjustment for both of you, whether you want to admit it, or not."

"We know that..."

"You're avoiding the issue with her," Deanna said. "And she's avoiding it with you. I can't know—and I don't want to know—what you discussed last night, or what you've specifically discussed throughout your time here. But I can sense that your bond is quite deep, and I know that protocol will dictate a necessary change in how much you communicate once you're back aboard the ship and chain of command continues."

"I went back and forth on the chain of command issue," Will said. "There were times I wish I'd insisted on keeping it in effect. But I still think it was the right decision. People here are paranoid, and they eavesdrop, and they got the wrong idea when they heard us calling each other by our ranks and—."

"Even with chain of command, the friendship would have been deep, Will," Deanna said. "It's OK to share that bond. It's difficult to alter it. You're the kind of person who has a thousand so-called friends and acquaintances. Lt. Yar is the kind of person who only wants three or four good friends, so she's very selective about who she trusts, and I sense that she trusts you implicitly, and that she has trusted you with a great deal. The fact that you think of her as your best friend says a lot."

She lifted the grocery bag that had been dangling from her hands as they walked, eyeing the contents through the tan plastic. "So does this," she nodded.

He just laughed. "She'll laugh," he said. "Really. At least, I hope she will."


	25. Chapter 25

**Future's Past, Chapter 25**

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, Monday, December 1, 2008**

"Welcome back," Will said, holding out cups of coffee to Tasha and Kendall as they beamed down. They had beamed up Miles O'Brien, earlier, and now it was his turn to beam them back to Earth and retrieve his shipmate for the next 24 hours. Will was waiting with his newspaper, a computer tablet with _Enterprise_ specs detailing issues since their disappearance, and two more cups of coffee for O'Brien and himself.

"Thank you!" Tasha smiled, accepting the cup of coffee. The four officers chatted for a few minutes, catching up on ship vs. apartment vs. work schedules for the next 24 hours.

"So, how was your shift?" Will asked, a grin already spreading across his face. He was ready to beam up for his shift, and looking forward to participating in the repairs with O'Brien, who would be beaming up four pieces of tungsten metal to begin installation on the dormant, port engine and retro brakes.

She nodded, trying not to remember yesterday, during her shift on the shuttle. The gravity generator had stopped working, forcing her and Lt. Louden Kendall to pilot the shuttle in zero-gravity back to Earth so O'Brien could beam aboard for a quick repair. She'd been nauseated the entire time, although Kendall had come through with an unorthodox band-aid for motion sickness: A pickle. She hated pickles, but had choked it down, and it did alleviate the nausea until O'Brien could fix the problem. And then she was fine.

Tasha knew Will would tease her about it as soon as she beamed down the next morning for the crew exchange. "My shift was swell," she said.

Kendall smiled, shaking his head. "That's great. . ." he muttered.

"Swell?" Will replied. "Since when do you use terms like 'swell'?"

"I read Lt. Kendall's list of 20th century expressions after gravity was restored," she replied. "Very interesting."

"Those are probably the only, non-profane expressions you've learned, here. Glad to know that. Oh before I forget to mention it, I left something for you in the fridge," Will said.

"Oh, yeah? What is it?"

"Beam me up," Will said into his combadge, and grinned again at Tasha as the transporter beam enveloped him. Within seconds of confirming his safe arrival on the shuttle, Tasha darted to the refrigerator.

"What the hell is this?" she exclaimed, hoisting a small jar of dill pickle spears from the front of the refrigerator, where they'd been situated with two notes, one on top of the other. The first one said, _'bon appetit!'_.

Having heard his beloved human's voice for the first time in 24 hours, KC the cat emerged from his hiding place beneath Tasha's bed. She flipped the top note over, and read the second note, which said, _'why is cat hair all over my pillow?'_

* * *

**43rd Place Bar & Grille, Kansas City, Missouri, Dec. 1, 2008, evening**

Deanna and Kendall spent their morning tagging along with Tasha as she went on various errands, stopping by her dojo and participating in a "free trial" class, then returning to the apartment, loading up on the first round of "extra things" to drop off at The Rec.

Kim Tobin had taken the afternoon off from work, and after picking up Deanna and Kendall converged on Gary's bar, watching the ballgames with the usual crowd, watched Tasha smooth over another disagreement with an intoxicated patron. She asked him to leave . . . and then she went outside the bar and sat on the curb with him while she waited for his cab.

"He just had too much, tonight," Gary said, as the cab hauled the man away and Tasha came back inside, shivering a bit from the cold. "It happens. Usually it only happens during Memorial Day weekend, though. He has too much to drink and then he remembers Vietnam, and it goes downhill. He lost his job two weeks ago and hasn't found anything, yet. He'll go home, sleep it off, and come back in a couple of days, and he'll be apologetic and be a nice guy, again."

"Well, that was interesting," Tasha remarked, as she walked past Deanna and Kendall.

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, December 2, 2008, 0100 hours**

Gary gave both Tasha and Deanna a ride home after the bar closed. Kendall also was riding with them, but would be returning to the Tobin home instead of sleeping in the apartment. Gary and Deanna would be taking the next shift aboard the shuttle, and Deanna could sense he was a little uneasy about being away from his family for 24 hours, but had a general leeriness about anyone who could read his mind.

"I'll see you aboard the shuttle, tomorrow," Gary said cheerfully. "Well, actually, it's 0100, so it's already tomorrow . . .I'll see you in seven hours."

"Modified sleep schedule," Deanna said.

"Oh, yeah," Gary said, his laughter genuine. "Good night, good morning, or whatever makes you happy."

Deanna and Tasha crept up the apartment stairs, whispering to avoid waking the neighbors. "Didn't seem like a long night, but I'm tired," Tasha said. "Maybe I'm getting accustomed to early morning wake-up sooner than I thought I would."

"You're so much more relaxed," Deanna said. "I sense you're much more at peace,"

"I am," Tasha said.

"Are you looking forward to being back aboard the _Enterprise_?"

"Yeah, I am looking forward to it," she said. "There are thinks I'll miss here, but only because I'm accustomed to them. I'll miss the people, here—well, some of them. There are some people I won't miss. But it'll be great to see everyone aboard the _Enterprise_, again."

"You're afraid that people might not respect you if you don't maintain a hard-edged persona," Deanna remarked as they went inside the apartment and hung up their coats.

Tasha shrugged. "I don't know—maybe," she replied. "I worry that I've slacked off on discipline, and that I'll slip up, somehow."

KC emerged from the bedroom and immediately began crying for attention, rubbing up against Tasha's legs until she picked him up and held him as she and Deanna sat on the couch to talk.

"That's normal, after time away from the discipline of a starship," Deanna said. "Believe me, I discussed that in some depth with Captain Picard before we came back. He doesn't like it, but he does understand. I suspect that if he were in your position, he would have as much difficulty returning to a starship as both you and Commander Riker believe you'll have."

"Will's convinced he'll have more of a problem than I will," Tasha said. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

"You'll both be fine," Deanna said. "Have you talked at all about how this has changed your relationship?"

"We talk all the time," Tasha replied. "We talk about everything. I figure we'll have some more time to talk about it, eventually. We just haven't gone there, yet."

"I can tell that you and Commander Riker have been through a lot together," Deanna said. "It's normal to stumble when you traverse between a personal relationship and a professional one."

"We're good friends," she said. "And I don't want that to be viewed negatively."

"As a compromise in the chain of command, you mean."

"Yes!" Tasha replied. "We don't view it that way. We adhered to chain of command and titles when we first arrived here, and finally stopped because it was attracting too much attention. It took awhile, but eventually we just fell into what we're doing now. We're good friends, and already I've begun calling him, 'sir', again."

"How did he respond to that?" Deanna said.

"He didn't. It wasn't a big deal."

"I know that you weren't romantically involved—," Deanna began.

Tasha couldn't avoid rolling her eyes a bit at that remark. Here it comes! People always assume we're dating, but we aren't . . .

"—And that you're only close friends," Deanna continued. "But once you get back aboard the _Enterprise_, it might be perceived differently."

"So we need to be careful to avoid the wrong impression, is what you're saying."

"Yes," Deanna said. "My worry is that your friendship may suffer because of that forced separation and formality after so much time spent in a casual relationship. It may seem at first as if it will be easy to make that transition. But I want both of you to discuss this. Get those concerns out on the table before you return. Just the two of you."

Tasha paused a few seconds. "I'd figured you'd wanted to be there for that."

"Not unless there's non-resolvable tension," Deanna replied. "The first rule of counseling is to help people to solve their own dilemmas, and assist them when an impasse is reached. Will didn't tell me the details, and frankly, that's not my business. But I can sense that you both have had your share of disagreements, and that your close friendship was very hard won, and won't be easy to change."

"I don't think either of us wants to let go of our friendship," Tasha said.

"I'm not saying that you should let it go," she said. "Only to find a balance. I'm saying that familiarity can lead to tension, can result in a form of bias that you aren't even aware is occurring. Will and I went through a period of that during our first weeks aboard the _Enterprise_. We finally sat down and talked, privately, where there wasn't a Ten Forward audience. And we were candid, and it was painful, and we laughed about other things, and we found the balance we now have."

"I'd never imagined you two having problems," Tasha remarked. "Other than you wanting to drag him off in one of the caves at Farpoint Station . . ."

Deanna nodded. "You caught that one, didn't you?"

"Oh, it was hard to miss," Tasha replied, smiling.

"Ideally, we should have had the opportunity to speak before we were faced with the Farpoint Station incident," Deanna said. "Then tension that was present there was not very professional. And that's why I want both of you to discuss the changes that are about to occur for both of you. Think about the first time Will decides to skirt around a security procedure so he can bail someone out on another Away Mission."

"Wouldn't be the first time," she said, shaking her head. "He knows how I feel about that."

"He's going to resume his duties as your commanding officer," Deanna said. "And you'll face the same challenges as occurs when one friend is promoted and the other one is not. Any recently promoted Starfleet officer goes through a period of change with friends who now are subordinates. It can be very isolating if it isn't addressed. This is a similar situation, almost akin to a married couple or a sibling relationship. If you want your personal friendship to continue, you must develop an understanding that duty is duty, and personal time is personal time. And even then, you're still an officer and are expected to maintain those delineations even off-duty . . ." Deanna glanced at her watch. "It's already 0200," she said, yawning. "I'm tired, and you're probably exhausted."

"Oh, I'm not that tired, yet. I'm just glad we could talk," Tasha asked, as Deanna sat down on the couch and began situating the extra pillow. "Are you all right on that couch? I'm sure Will wouldn't mind if you slept in his bed. It's probably not as lumpy."

"Actually, it's fine," Deanna said. The thought of sleeping in Will's bed seemed just a bit much for her, especially after everything she'd just been discussing. "As long as I've got a blanket, I'm fine on the couch. And by the way, your cat missed you terribly while you were away. He'd let me pet him, but throughout the night he paced through the apartment. I could feel he was looking for you."

"Why does Will hate cats so much?" Tasha asked, scratching KC's ears.

"I don't know," she replied. "I wasn't aware that he did until I sensed that he and KC didn't get along."

"They aren't best buddies, but they tolerate each other," Tasha said, standing up to go into the bedroom. "Come on, cat. Let's go to bed. I owe you some snuggle time."

* * *

**Wornall Cafe, Kansas City, Missouri, Tuesday, December 2, 2008**

Will Riker was upbeat when beamed back into the apartment that morning, and within a minute, he'd shared the news: Repairs were going so well that they might be able to leave as early as Saturday.

"O'Brien and Machias as going to knock out the final retros today, and they'll install them tomorrow," he said. "How was your day, yesterday?"

"It was a good day," Deanna said. "I'm sure Tasha could fill you in." She tapped her combadge and said, "Troi to O'Brien, I'm ready for beam-up."

"O'Brien acknowledged, locking on, beam-up in five, four, three . . ."

"Have a nice day!" Deanna smiled at both of them, then was enveloped in the transporter beam and whisked away to the shuttle, where Gary Tobin already had been beamed up. Deanna would then beam O'Brien to New Brunswick.

Will stared at the space where Deanna had been standing. "What was that about?"

Tasha shrugged.

"I have the impression that we're being baited," he remarked.

"We are being baited," she replied. "She said we need to talk."

His shoulders slumped in mock disappointment. "Do we have to?" he said. His tone was serious but his expression said otherwise.

"Oh, whenever," she replied, unable to suppress a grin. "You want to go get some coffee?"

* * *

**Wornall Cafe, Kansas City, Dec. 2, 2008, 0845 hours**

"So, tell me about the repairs," Tasha asked. They had just found the last available table at Wornall Cafe and settled in for an hour of breakfast and people watching. Now 0845, the morning rush had passed but the place still was busy with stragglers who were sapping every, free minute they could before needing to be at work by 0900.

"The first installations went well, yesterday," Will said. "New liner for the engine cowling, new shaft, and internal blades for the retros. Looks like they'll hold up, well. All we've got left are the externals, and we can leave."

"How soon can he have those done?"

"He and Machias will work on those today," Will said. "He needed to make sure the first installations would work before the last ones would go in. And now they'll work on the biggest pieces, which probably will take most of today, based on what he told me about how easy it was to work with the metal they have access to."

"Is it going to be strong enough?"

"Well, the tests we ran last night looked good. We should be fine."

"How's O'Brien doing, otherwise?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is he getting along all right in New Brunswick?"

"Yeah, he is," Will replied. "Sounds like he and Machias get along very well. They've even been to the pub a couple of times, which is fine. Not like we haven't done the same thing."

"He hasn't had any issues with the authorities?"

"No, I think Gavin Machias took care of that . . . made him a fake ID."

"Are you serious?" Tasha's mouth fell open. "If he gets caught . . ."

"It looked good to me," Will said. "We should have done that, here."

She stared at him.

"I can't believe you, of all people, would have an issue with doing something like that," Will said. "It's a great idea! We should have made some fake IDs for our guests."

"I have an issue with it, because if we'd been caught . . ."

Will drew a deep breath. "You're right," he admitted. "If we'd been caught, there would have been problems."

"I've heard about the Jackson County Jail," she said. "Could you imagine . . ?"

"I don't want to imagine that," he said."

They sat in silence for several minutes, each of them not wanting to initiate "The Talk" they supposedly needed to have. They'd both heard about from Counselor Troi. And the both had chosen to procrastinate as long as possible.

* * *

_**Enterprise**_** stealth shuttle, Luna**

Deanna Troi was actually enjoying piloting a shuttle, having done so several times since she'd arrived in the 21st century. She rather enjoyed it, and was now convinced that she'd insist on regular piloting opportunities once they all returned to the 24th century.

But she could cut the tension within that shuttle with a butter knife.

Gary Tobin hadn't given any outward signs that she made him nervous. He'd never said anything, and by his very upbringing, saying something would have been bad manners. He rode in the co-pilot's chair, a post he'd never held before as a petty officer, mostly curious about the various controls and wanting to know how to do the important things 'just in case'.

So she taught him about altitude, about movement, yaw and pitch. She explained how the lack of a port engine was making things interesting, especially while landing on the moon in the relatively shielded valley where they couldn't be spotted by Earth telescopes.

He was polite, genuinely curious and wanting to learn. But his heart was elsewhere, with his family.

"I know you have many concerns that you hadn't allowed yourself to consider before now," Deanna said.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Deanna said. "I can sense emotions, remember?"

"That's almost an unfair advantage. I mean, one's thoughts are their own."

"They are," she replied.

"It kind of freaks me out, knowing that you can read my mind," Gary replied.

"Actually, I can't 'read' minds. I'm only half-Betazoid. I can sense emotions, which are stronger than thoughts."

"Still," he replied. "Ever thought about how you'd cope without being able to read emotions?"

"I don't know any different," she remarked. "You raise a very good point, though."

"I don't how I'd do, being able to actually know what someone is feeling, so there we are," he said. "Yeah, I'm concerned about how I'm going to tell my kids, and how they're going to deal with it. Mostly, I'm glad to be going back, though."

Deanna regarded him for a few seconds. "I'm surprised you haven't delved more into psychology," she said. "Into the formal study, I mean."

"I've thought about it," Gary replied. "The job I have on Earth...a lot of what I do is read people, even if I don't possess empathic abilities, there's so much you can pick up on. But I've never had any formal training. I didn't do well in school, so it wasn't something I'd ever considered doing."

"You should consider it. You've already got a good head start," Deanna said. "I know a lot of doctoral psychology students who didn't have nearly the grasp on "people skills" that you have."

"You're buttering me up," he said.

"See?" Deanna replied. "You're as good at reading people as I am."

"So, you WERE buttering me up," he remarked.

"I'd hoped to demonstrate that if you look at it this way, we're evenly matched," Deanna said. "You possess more observational skills than I do. And you're right. I do tend to take my empathic abilities for granted. And I admit, I don't know exactly how I would cope without them. But since I'm only half-Betazoid, I can only sense emotions in most people."

"So, if you're half-Betazoid...

"My mother is from Betazed. My father was Human."

"Oh," Gary replied. "So, your mother always knew when you were up to something."

"Well, based on what I've seen, most mothers sense when their children are up to mischief. They can't explain how they know, but they always know. Their challenge is to them ferret out the information once they confront their children."

"But in your case . . ."

"My mother knew I was about to get into trouble before I'd even begun to do it."

Gary shook his head. "So, you never got to even climb the tree, let alone fall out of it, before your mother knew about it."

"Oh, no," Deanna said. "She knew even before I'd begun to walk toward the tree."

"The trouble I could have stayed out of, if my mother had known what I was up to," Gary said. "I wonder if she's . . ."

"Your mother is very much alive," Deanna said. "I checked Earth records. She is still living in Joplin, still very active. And I'm sure she'll be delighted to see you and meet Kim and your children."

"I was the first person from my family to leave Earth for work," he said. "She probably thinks I'm dead, by now."

"You're listed officially as missing in action," Deanna said. "The case hasn't been closed. As far as I know, you've not been listed as dead in any Earth database."

"My biggest worry is that Kim and I might be split up by Starfleet to finish our commitments," Gary said. "Or that our kids would have a huge problem adjusting, or both . . ."

"Starfleet will take all of that into consideration," Deanna said. "Have you thought about requesting an Earth assignment?"

"I didn't know that was an option."

"Yes! It's actually one of the options that are wide open, because they aren't the so-called desirable assignments. But for you and Kim, an Earth assignment would be perfect. You would be able to fulfill your duties, and your children could acclimate. I can't imagine that Starfleet wouldn't take into consideration the decade you both spent here. And there are Federation ports all over Earth. I know there are several in the North American Midwest."

* * *

**43rd Place Bar & Grille, Kansas City, Missouri, December 2, 2008, 2215 hours**

While Deanna and Gary were having hours of conversations aboard the shuttle, Gavin Machias and Miles O'Brien were busily tweaking metal that would make up replacement retro brakes for the port engines.

Will Riker was folding up a soiled tablecloth at Nichols Jazz, where a romantic dinner for two had gone bad, earlier. It seemed to Will like a first date between two people who didn't know each other well before the night began. The night had ended when the lady tossed a glass of SinZin merlot into the face of her date, who'd already come across to Will as a smarmy-variety name-dropper.

_Good for her,_ he'd thought. _And I'm glad he picked up the tab before she stormed out._

This was Will's second-to-last shift. His last shift would be Wednesday night. He was supposed to be working Saturday night. But by the time his shift would begin, he'd already be gone, warped 350 years into the future.

Off work by 2200 hours, he initially headed back to the apartment, but found himself moving toward the 43rd, where Tasha was working her second-to-last shift, also. Will hadn't planned to be there, but there he was. A gladly distracted Tasha was glad he was there, and he was glad that she was there. He found the only seat remaining at the bar and propped himself up...and wound up in the midst of an unexpected reunion.

"Oh my flippin' God!" exclaimed a young woman sitting beside him. "I remember you! How are your hands?"

Recognition flashed across Will's face as he recognized the young paramedic who had begged him to go to the hospital after his hands and arms had been burned. She was in plainclothes, off-duty and happily inebriated, evidently with a man sitting on her opposite side.

"I'd wondered what happened to you!" she said.

"My roommate finally took me in, but by then we still had to wait," Will said.

"You should've come with us!" she said, but her expression was sympathetic. "U-Med was in totally fucked gridlock that night. You might have still had to wait, but I'd have given you some morphine and you wouldn't have been stuck in triage . . .I'm Linda. Do you remember Jack? He's my ambulance partner . . ." Will and the other man, a similarly bearded man also in his 20s, nodded greetings at each other.

"It took several weeks, but the burns got better," Will remarked. "And now we're all here, getting drunk."

"Oh, I'm already drunk," Linda said. "Jack owes me lots of liquor after last night's shift from hell. And he will be holding my hair back, later."

"Thanks," Jack replied, not sounding particularly thrilled.

Jack was a deadpan kind of fellow, much like Gary Tobin, only he'd seen so much carnage in his time that he chose to be nonchalant about everything. He maintained that even tone when relating the reasons why he and a co-worker were sitting in the bar on an off night. "I tried to hard to keep a straight face," he said.

But his intoxicated partner, Linda, was having none of it. "Uh, bullshit," she interjected, and continued the story, nearly shouting over the live band playing across the room. "So while we were carrying her down the stairs, she started calling Jesus, you know? 'Oh, lord Jesus save me, help me,' and started leaning sideways, and grabbing her family pictures off the wall, just freaking out . . . and Jack started laughing."

"How could I not laugh?" Jack remarked. "It was funny, in a sick way, but funny."

"Sounded funny," Will added.

"—And I was saying, 'Ma'am please keep your arms folded across your chest and don't be grabbing at anything while we're carrying you down the stairs,' like I was working the rides at Six Flags or something. And the fire guys were laughing at us, and Jack was laughing at me for NOT laughing. So we got to the hospital, and our battalion chief was waiting for us because he's already gotten a complaint call from her family that we were insensitive and laughing. So we got written up, and up until then I'd had _no dings on my record_, Jack!"

Jack was unfazed. "We're here to celebrate her first ding," he remarked, and Will had to laugh again at the parallels: The nonchalant, senior medic trying to get his overly serious partner to lighten up. Sounds very familiar, Will thought, glancing at Tasha hauling another tray of drinks up the stairs.

"—Absolutely humiliated," Linda continued, liquored-up and happily running her mouth. "And then couple hours later we got sent on a diff breathing, and she's a psych that we run all the time. She was upset because the sun hadn't come up, yet, so she thought the world had ended. And I'm like, 'Ma'am, the sun comes up later in the fall than it does in the summer'. But she thought it was Rapture, and she hyperventilated and did the whole chest pains and carpal spasms thing. So we transported in just in case she was having The Big One, which she wasn't . . . and we got her to the truck without her grabbing at anything, without Jack laughing in her face, and we were transporting, Jack was driving, and I was in the back with the Rapture woman. So I was giving my radio report, and Jack started singing, 'The sun will come out, tomorrow'..."

Thoroughly entertained by then, Will began laughing in earnest.

"She insists she's not high-strung," Jack said, relaxing one elbow atop the bar counter with his bearded face propped against one hand.

"—And then I started laughing, so I sounded like an absolute idiot on the radio," she said. "Jack humiliates me in public. But we can put up with each other, so it works."

Will raised his glass. "To your first ding, then," he said. "You got it over with."

She had to smile. "I did! To my first ding."

"Cheers," Jack said, and three glasses clinked together.

* * *

**December 3, 2008, 0115 hours**

The band had stopped playing more than an hour earlier, and several of them had joined Will at the bar for a round of drinks, chatting casually and laughing about the Will had been admiring wood-grain patterns on the bar counter when he noticed Tasha standing beside his bar stool. He looked up and smiled.

"Tash," he muttered. "I'm . . . drunk."

"Yes, you are," she replied, grinning back, somewhat entertained by his state of mind. In their 20 months of living together, she'd never seen him actually intoxicated, before. _You put two more drinks away even after your EMS buddies carried each other out here,_ she thought. _She placed a cup of coffee on the counter in front of him._

"Here, drink this, and there's more where that came from. You going to be all right?"

"Hope so," he said, sipping the coffee. "Thanks."

"When are you heading home?"

"As soon as I can drink this," he replied.

"I've got another hour here, so if you want to stay and walk back with me, or take a cab, just let me know, all right?"

"Oh, I don't think I'll need a cab," he said. "I'm not THAT far gone." But even as he said it, Will suspected he was in trouble. That initial, giddy feeling of inebriation had descended into seeing four of everything. He decided it would be best if he walked home while he still could, and left as soon as he'd finished his coffee.

"Heading back?" The bouncer, a friendly guy who was as tall as Will and at least 50 kilos heavier, asked Will staggered over the bar's stone doorstep.

"Yeah."

"You all right?"

"Oh yeah," he replied, but it came out in one syllable.

* * *

**December 3, 2008, 0130 hours**

"Hey, Tasha!" The bouncer met her as she was halfway down the stairs with a tray full of empty glasses. The majority of the crowd had cleared out, and now Tasha was left with the usual mess: Hundreds of empty glasses, wadded napkins, the occasional drug wrapper, chewed gum smashed beneath tables, potato chips shattered everywhere . . .

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Hey, Will's sitting on the curb just up the street," he reported.

"He's not passed out in the gutter, is he?" she replied, half-joking as she set the tray on the bar counter and followed the bouncer to the door.

"No, he's just sitting there," the bouncer said. "He sounded like he'd had a few when he left 15 minutes ago. He was walking, so I figured he was fine, but now he's just sitting on the curb."

Tasha didn't grab her coat before going outside, even though a drizzly rain was falling.

"Holler if you need me to help drag him back inside," the bouncer said.

"Thanks, Bob," she replied, and strode about 30 yards uphill, along the sidewalk to where Will sat on a curb with his legs stretched out into the roadway. Although a light rain was now falling, Will was sitting beneath one of the huge, Oak trees that lined 43rd Street, so he was somewhat shielded from the rain. But he'd been there long enough that he was drenched, anyway. The temperature was falling enough that she could see his breath as he exhaled, and was relieved for that. At least he was breathing.

"Will, what's going on?" she stepped onto the road, then crouched in front of him.

"Oh, hi," he said, his voice slurred. "Just resting, just catching my breath."

He's not going anywhere on his own, she thought. "Come back inside, I'll call us a cab when I'm done with my shift."

"It's not—," he began stammering. "This is a big hill, you know."

"The hill isn't that big — oh my God, what happened to your ankle?"

Illuminated by the streetlight, his right ankle was easily twice as big as his left one. He'd evidently shoved his sock down over his swollen ankle, and had also unlaced his shoe.

"I sort of twisted it...had a small inconvenience, but it's nothing, really."

"Bullshit," she said.

"I just loosened it up," he said, nodding toward his unlaced shoe.

"Before or after you wiped out?"

"After," he said. "The curb's uneven."

"The curb's been uneven for years," she replied, beginning to relace his shoe so it wouldn't fall off when they hobbled back into the bar. She felt the swelling around his ankle and shook her head. This was a bad sprain, at the very least. _I just hope it's not broken,_ she thought. _I wonder what Suravi Bhat is going to say about this one . . ._

"You're coming back inside," she said, holding her hands out toward him. "Come on, stand up."

"I can't stand up, that's—,"

"If you can't stand up, it's more than a small inconvenience."

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, December 3, 2008, 0200 hours**

After he spent the next 30 minutes slumped on one of the vacated benches inside with a bag of ice draped over his swollen ankle, Tasha was able to clock out and call a cab for them both. After two attempts to pull him up on her own, she finally was able to get him to his feet and help him limp inside. There was no way they'd be walking back to the apartment. She wasn't even sure she'd be able to get him up the stairs even if they did have a ride back.

"I can't even see straight," he muttered, his voice slurred, as they edged into their apartment building and began navigating the stairs.

"At least that ankle is anesthetized," she quipped. "Sort of."

"It's not hurting much," he said. "It doesn't feel right, though."

"I believe that," she replied. She was walking on his right side, their arms draped across each other's shoulders, providing support so he wasn't putting all his weight on his injured ankle.

"I can't believe I did something like this," he added.

"The drinking part, or the messed-up ankle part?"

"Oh, the drinking part," he said. "The ankle didn't help. I feel like a teenager who's just broken into the liquor cabinet for the first time."

"It just caught up with you," she said. "It happens. I'm just glad you didn't vomit in the cab."

"So what did he say?"

"Who?"

"The cab driver said something when I was lying down on the seat—,"

Tasha kept her voice low so she wouldn't be waking their neighbors. "He said, and I quote, 'If he pukes in my cab, I'll rip his balls off'."

"Ooh," Will said, holding tighter to the handrail. "That would have been bad."

"That's why I kept the window rolled down," she said. "As I said, I'm glad you didn't vomit. But rest assured that if you had, I'd have taken the driver out of commission before he ripped off your balls."

"Oh," Will said, swaying as they lurched down the second-floor hallway toward their apartment. "Thanks for saving my balls."

"Anytime, sir," she said.

"You're already calling me sir, again," he said.

"Yeah, I need to get back into that habit," she said, unlocking the door.

"I wonder what Deanna's going to say," Will said, hobbling inside and tossing his coat onto the floor.

"She's on the shuttle. She's not even here," Tasha replied, then realized what he'd just done. "Did you just toss your coat onto the floor?"

"Yeah, I did," he remarked. "You finally rubbed off on me."

"Go lie down," she said, smiling. "I'm making up another icepack for that ankle."

* * *

He limped to the bathroom, then flopped onto the bed without bothering to remove his clothes or shoes. He'd nearly fallen asleep a minute later, she walked into the room with a bag of fresh ice dangling from one hand.

"You left your shoes on, again," she remarked. "I left a glass of water here on your nightstand while you were in the bathroom. You need to drink that before you fall asleep."

"Wonder what she'll say about it, tomorrow," Will said.

"What?"

"Deanna," Will reiterated.

"She doesn't need to know," Tasha said. "It's your business."

"Oh, she'll know," Will remarked. "Even if I hadn't messed up my ankle, she senses everything and calls people on it. I know it's her job and she has that ability, but sometimes it's really irritating, because I'd always thought dragging people's personal business into the open was rude."

"So, tell her that," she said. "I'm sure it isn't the first time she's heard it. I've felt the same way a time or two."

"I tried that once," he said. "And she said I only reacted because I was ashamed of my feelings, or something like that. I've always believed my feelings were personal."

"They are," she replied. "I will tell you, though, that right now, you look like you don't feel very good."

"Everything's spinning—," he said.

"Did you drink that glass of water?"

"Huh?"

"This glass of water, you need to drink it," she said, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Sit up, drink this."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, taking the glass and taking a sip. "No ice?"

"You don't need cold water. You need fluids."

"Cold water numbs me to how bad the water tastes here."

She shrugged. "That makes a lot of sense," she admitted. "But you still need to drink it."

He sipped half the glass, then contemplated it for a few seconds as she placed the bathroom waste basket next to the head-end of his bed.

"You don't have much confidence that I'm not going to throw up, do you?"

"It's a possibility," she said.

"But the last thing I drank was coffee."

She nodded. "Oh, yeah," she said, as if piling coffee onto everything else he'd ingested had somehow made a difference in his blood alcohol level. The only thing it probably did was perk him up enough so they would make it home without her needing to physically drag him up the stairs. "The last thing you had to drink WAS coffee."

"Oh, I'm drunk," he said. "I'm drunk enough to be embarrassed about it."

"I need to look at your ankle," she said, standing up so she could grab the bag of ice she'd brought in earlier, and had left on the floor by the bathroom. She also grabbed a towel from the bathroom, then went back to the kitchen to get another trash can liner to double-bag the ice. By the time she'd returned, he'd nearly fallen asleep.

"I thought you were going to take your shoes off," she muttered, then turned on the light.

He scrunched his eyes closed. "Why the hell did you do that?"

"I need to see what happened to your ankle before I put ice on it," she said.

"I hurt it, is what happened."

She had already taken off his left shoe, and was working on his right one. Already, his ankle was beginning to swell over the shoe's edges. She loosened the shoe's laces as much as possible, and for once was grateful he was so drunk that he couldn't feel much pain when she slipped the shoe off, and peeled off the sock after that.

"Oh no . . ." she muttered.

"Is it bad?"

"Yeah, it's bad," she said, eyeing the reddened, swollen mass erupting, mostly on the side of his foot, but also beginning to bruise and swell on the inside edge. He'd done some substantial damage to that ankle. "I hope you didn't break it. Can you feel this?" she pinched each of his toes, watching to make sure that the nail beds turned pink again after she let go of each of them, and they did. Good capillary refill. That's good. He's at least got distal circulation, she thought.

"Yes, I feel all the little piggies," he said.

She smiled at the reference, glad he at least was being a happy drunk. "That's great," she said. "How about this?" she pushed on the upper edges of his tibia bone, just below his knee. "Does that hurt when I push here?"

"No, my knee's not hurt," she said.

"It wasn't your knee I was checking," she said. "How about this?" she dragged her fingernail across the sole of his foot, from his heel to his toes, and as he should have, the toes flared out and his foot reflexively flexed up, away from the stimulation.

"Why are you tickling my foot?" he said. "That hurt!"

"Just checking your reflexes," she said. "They look all right."

"They didn't teach anything about reflexes in the first aid training I got."

"I had the basic tactical medicine class," she said. "It focused on keeping someone alive if you're under fire, or you're otherwise trapped and can't be evacuated. So we learned more than basic first aid."

"So, is it broken?"

"I don't think so," she said. "But I won't know until Ensign Bhat can check it out."

He looked at her. "Can it wait until tomorrow?"

"Yes, it can wait until tomorrow," she said, suspecting that he didn't want Bhat to see him when he was intoxicated. "Keep the ice on it. I'm going to get you some ibuprofen. It'll help with the swelling."

"I took some earlier," he said.

"How much?"

"Uh, four of them," he said. "While I was in the bathroom."

"800 milligrams. . .well, if that doesn't help, I don't know what will," she said. "In the words of LaDonna at the Rec, you've boogered yourself up."

"Great . . ."

"But I don't think any long bones are broken. You're moving everything and you didn't yell when I touched the other ends of your tibia and fibula," she said. "But the short bones in your foot and ankle . . .that's a different story. You could have fractured one of those. I have no way to tell until the swelling goes down."

"That's why you were pushing on my knee," he said, struggling to converse through the fog of alcohol still enveloping his mind. "But you might need to repeat all this when I'm sober, because nothing makes sense, right now."

"I believe that," she said, turning off the light, and disappearing into the bathroom for a few minutes. She figured he'd be asleep when she re-emerged, and as she crawled into her bed she didn't like the elevation of his leg. She took the pillow off her bed to elevate his leg more.

"Will, I'm moving your leg up some more," she said. "Hold on—," he now had her pillow, plus the two that Tasha had raided from the couch (including the one Deanna had been using), elevating his right ankle and foot. She draped the towel over his ankle, then gently lowered the bag of ice onto it.

"That all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied. "Actually, what I said earlier about nothing making sense? I take that back. You're the only thing about this place that made any sense the whole time we were here."

Somewhat surprised, she sat on the floor by the edge of his bed, not sure how to respond. He's drunk, she thought. He won't remember much about this tomorrow, until he tries to get out of bed and figures out it hurts to walk.

"I mean it," he said. "I'm glad that if I had to get stranded 350 years ago, I was stranded here with you. We all need someone in our lives who isn't afraid to call us on the parts of our personalities that need work, you know?"

"I bet that was tough to say," she finally replied.

"Nah, it was easy to say, especially after everything I had to drink."

"Liquid courage," she remarked.

"Yeah, but what I said also happens to be true," he said. "I just never said it until now. And I'm going to stop while I'm ahead, primarily because I'm about to pass out."

"OK," she said, finally laughing, standing up to get into her own bed. "Good night."

"Good night, Tash," he replied.

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, Wednesday, December 3, 2008, 0815 hours**

"So, what happened, last night?" Deanna said, her expression somewhat smug. She had just beamed down from the shuttle. Tasha was awake, having showered and gotten dressed. Will was still in the bathroom. He'd been in there for a while, having been roused by Tasha about one hour before Deanna's arrival.

Deanna initially stepped into bedroom to knock on the bathroom door, just to let Will know that she'd arrived in the apartment, that Gary had arrived safely back at his house, and that O'Brien and Machias were now aboard the shuttle to begin final installations.

"All right, thanks," he said through the door. "I'll be out in about 10 minutes."

"Take your time," she said, then turned to leave the room, but not before she noticed something about his bed. A minute later, she returned to the main room, where Tasha was standing in the kitchen and staring out the window.

"You must have had . . . quite the talk," Deanna said. "There's a towel and a wet spot on Will's bed."

Tasha turned and stared at her. "What?" she said, perplexed.

"You heard it," Deanna began, but sensed that Tasha was genuinely shocked by her observation.

"The ice bag must have leaked," Tasha said, walking into the bedroom. "There WAS a leak in the outside bag. Dammit!"

"As I was saying, there's a towel and a wet spot, in the middle of the bed," Deanna said, nonplussed by Tasha's exclamation, nor by the dripping, plastic bag that Tasha held up off the bed.

I thought she could read my mind, Tasha thought. Surely she doesn't think . . .she DOES think that! Deanna Troi has as filthy a mind as I do.

"This is what remains of a bag of ice that had been on his right ankle last night," Tasha said, wadding the dripping bags in her hand before dropping them onto the towel that Will had evidently moved onto the center of the bed when he'd gotten up to continue his misery in relative privacy within the bathroom. "I had a towel there to prevent his ankle from being 'burned' by direct contact with the ice," she continued. "He sprained his ankle."

"So the bag of ice was meant for . . ."

"Relief of the swelling and bruising and discomfort," Tasha said, her expression turning smug. "He must have tossed the towel aside when he got out of bed and hobbled into the bathroom. You know, I'd have never pegged you to have a dirty mind!" She was unable to prevent a grin from emerging through her initial outrage.

"Well . . ." a flush rose to Deanna's face.

"Yes, I'm telling the truth," Tasha said.

"I know you are," Deanna replied. "So, is he all right?"

"I guess," she replied. "He's in the shower, and unless I hear a thud, I'm not going in to check on him. But last night, his ankle was THIS big," her hands mimicked the size of a cantaloupe.

"How did that happen?" Deanna exclaimed.

"The curb won," Tasha said. "I've already called Kim's house, and Suravi Bhat is on her way over here. Kim's going to drop her off on her way to work."

"But how did it happen?" she pressed, suspecting there was an amusing story to accompany this latest, 21st century adventure. And she was right.

**December 3, 2008, 0930 hours**

Bhat had seen worse ankle injuries, but that had been with 24th century medical technology at her disposal. This morning, Will Riker was slumped on the couch in his apartment, with his swollen, bruised, right ankle propped onto a table in front of the couch. Bhat's medical tricorder scanned his ankle and told her what she needed to know: This injury was relatively contained, with no evident fractures. But he'd shredded multiple ligaments, and the injury was hours old.

"You've got a second-degree lateral sprain, which isn't horrible, but it must have taken quite a blow," Bhat said, swallowing an impulse to chastise him for his delay in contacting her for treatment. This was why she was on the Away Team, after all, to deliver medical treatment.

"So, how did this happen?" she asked, instead.

Will glanced at Tasha, who raised her eyebrows at him. Deanna sat on the edge of the couch beside him.

"I stepped off a curb," he said. "Just a misstep."

Bhat believed the first part, but knew there was more to it. "It wouldn't have anything to do with the 0.06 blood alcohol level still present in your bloodstream at—," she glanced at her watch. "—0930 hours, would it?"

"Maybe," Will admitted.

"Well, if that's the case, then it serves you right," Bhat said, her tricorder now switched to treatment mode. The handheld medical 'wand' that Bhat brought for wound repair began humming as it mended the torn ligaments, gently positioning the shredded fibers into their anatomically appropriate positions so they would heal properly.

"I'm repairing the torn ligaments," Bhat continued. "You need to stay off the ankle for another half-hour until the swelling has abated. Hopefully I'll ensure that by allowing the headache and nausea you also have—and aren't admitting to me—to abate on its own with oral hydration. I think you've earned that misery."

"I've earned and paid," he muttered.

"I'm reading another substance in your bloodstream . . .looks like a propionic acid derivative of some kind . . ."

"Ibuprofen," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, that is an older remedy, effective against the swelling, but stresses the kidneys too much to be recommended anymore," she said. "I think you've stressed your kidneys enough. You need to drink some water. The tap water here contains innumerable, small toxins, but will do to flush your system, so I would recommend you do the same "bottoms-up" routine that you did to such excess last night, water only. No more than 32 to 48 ounces within the next four hours. I am also giving you a thiamine booster."

"So, how long until I can walk on it?"

"You'll stretch it after half an hour, then more therapy, and then after another half hour you should be able to stand and have full mobility," Bhat said. "The swelling needs to dissipate slowly. If reabsorption occurs too quickly, it could disrupt the intercellular sodium-potassium pump and this could result in—,"

Will sighed. "Gesundheit," he muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My hung-over mind is having difficulty comprehending medical gobbledegook," he said.

"That serves you right, too," Bhat replied, not missing a beat.

Will looked toward Deanna, seeking a sympathetic advocate. But the amused look she gave him in return told him otherwise. "What?" he said.

"I wasn't going to say anything," she replied.

"You didn't need to," he remarked, tapping his temple with one of his fingers. He could feel she was empathetic toward his predicament, but also a bit entertained by it. Even in the bathroom earlier that morning, she swore he heard giggling emanating from the living room where Deanna and Tasha were waiting for him to hobble out of the bathroom.

Deanna nodded toward Tasha, who then moved in for the pre-arranged kill.

"Would you like a pickle, sir?" Tasha asked.


	26. Chapter 26

**Future's Past 26**

* * *

_**Will Riker's personal log, Thursday, December 4, 2008**_

_We're going back. It still seems unbelievable. A big part of me is relieved to be leaving and can't wait to be back in my own century. But I do like the relaxed pace here, even if people in the 21st century insist that things move too fast. They don't understand how much faster their world is about to spin._

_I hadn't considered, until Deanna brought it up, how much I'm likely to miss Tasha when we resume our duties. Neither Tasha nor I had even thought about that part of going back._

_Deanna wanted us to talk about it. We didn't. Fgures, that we'd postpone it. Why force things, when we'd fought so hard for what we have today? Our lives just evolved to the point where we spend more time together than we do apart. I'll be damned if I know how I'm going to suddenly disconnect from that, and just be Tasha's commanding officer, again._

_One of the cold facts of command is learning to separate from one's staff, from people you used to chum around with, people who know your secrets. This is why so many first officers request a transfer. They don't want those connections and friendships to get in the way of their path to the captain's chair._

_I feel very comfortable returning to the Enterprise. But, again, Tasha has become my best friend, one of the best friends I've ever had. I don't know that I'll be able to force that separation. Even the closest of friends can't force formality forever. There's a breaking point. My goal is that Tasha and I can retain our friendship without losing this bond._

* * *

**Nichols Jazz, December 4, 2008, 2030 hours**

Deanna dropped by the JC Nichols Jazz Club for a little while, mostly to have dinner, speak with Will briefly, speak with the chef Immanuel, whom she liked very much. He was one of the few humans she'd ever known who actually spoke his mind . . . and his mind was brimming with eclectic pontifications that bridged across centuries.

Immanuel had picked up on her fondness for chocolate and had made her a delicious, Brazilian dessert concoction that combined grilled, tropical fruit and liberal amounts of liquor-infused chocolate sauce. This would be Will's last night at Nichols, and she sensed how much he would miss the fun parts of his job, there. Will deserved his space more than he wanted her there with him. So she granted him that.

"You going to be all right walking to the 43rd?" he asked.

"I'll be fine," she replied. It was just two blocks away on a well-lit, busy street. She'd made the walk several times before, and it was actually quite pleasant, even on a cool night like this one. She was just glad that it wasn't drizzling rain as it had been earlier in the day.

Will was going to stop by the 43rd after he got off from work at 2300 hours, tonight, then they would walk back together to the apartment while Tasha finished her shift. He was waiting for a signal from Miles O'Brien that the repairs had been finished on the warp retros, and were ready to be tested. He had rigged a communications link with the cellular phone network that Will's phone was on, so they could communicate without arousing suspicion from anyone around them.

A combadge wouldn't have cut it in the 21st century, where everyone was suspicious of everyone, knew everything and hated everybody. Deanna was looking forward to being back aboard the _Enterprise_ and with the Federation, where while politics were present, they certainly didn't descend to the backbiting that was occurring here, in the wake of a presidential election. She didn't understand it, and even without being '"in the know" regarding politics, she wanted little to do with it. She'd seen friendly conversations at both Will's workplace and Tasha's workplace descend into shouting matches.

They would both be back aboard the _Enterprise_, soon, and even with all the political rancor occurring, Deanna suspected that Will would be wistful for several days after their arrival. After being snagged into a time warp, Will Riker and Natasha Yar would be returning to their proper time and place, more than 350 years into the future . . . their present.

Of course, Immanuel couldn't know any of that. All he knew was the story Will had given him, which seemed believable enough, that he and Tasha would be moving to San Francisco "to be closer to family".

"So, whose family is this?" Immanuel remarked that evening, after Deanna had left for the 43rd and Will was darting back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. Immanuel was doing what he did best: Tossing noodles for one meal, stirring sauce for another and running his mouth at the same time. "Is it yours, or hers?"

"Mine," he replied, which was complete bullshit. Really, as far as Will knew, Tasha had no living relatives at all, let alone any living in San Francisco, in the 24th century. He began wondering how the final repairs on the shuttle were going when he was jolted out of his reverie by another question.

"So, why is she moving, too?"

"Just wanted to, I guess," Will remarked. "She's ready for a change."

"Man, I'm telling you something," Immanuel replied. "You and her got to have a conversation, you know? You don't follow each other across the country twice because you're just good friends."

"But we are," Will said. "We followed each other once, and she's traveling with me, again."

"You sure you aren't sleeping with Tasha?"

"Positive I'm not sleeping with Tasha," Will replied, laughing.

Immanuel shook his head. "All right, if you say so," he remarked. "And I got to tell you something else. If you and Deanna are going to get together, you'd better do it quick, because someone else will grab her up. If I liked women, I'd be dating her tonight, you know what I'm saying?"

"Isn't she something?" Will replied, another grin spreading across his face.

"She is! Almost like she can read my mind!" Immanuel replied, his own face lighting up. "You're gonna need to fend off crowds of men off her when you get to San Francisco."

* * *

**43rd Place Bar & Grille, Dec. 4, 2300 hours**

At the 43rd, Deanna sensed the same emotions from both Tasha and Gary. Although Tasha had told several people that she would be "moving to San Francisco" this weekend, no one knew that this also was Gary's last shift. They had planned it, that way, to arouse less suspicion.

The usual crowd was there, eyeing the usual selection of sports on television sets spread throughout the bar, even though the volume was turned down so the live band could be heard throughout. Game watchers didn't seem to care, mostly because what was on television didn't involve anyone local. It was just a game to watch, or background noise.

Gary seemed much more nonchalant about it than Tasha did, even inwardly. He and Deanna already had spoken a lot about what he was NOT going to miss: Worrying about bills; the consistently overflowing toilets in the women's bathroom; the disintegrating foundation that was settling beneath the century-old building; the schools that served more as babysitters rather than educational establishments for his daughters; the crime; the politics . . . he wouldn't miss any of that.

The things he would miss would be things he would still have on 24th century Earth if Starfleet approved a transfer for both him and his wife, Kim, also a Starfleet officer. Deanna fervently hoped that the Tobin's request would go through so they could remain on Earth after they arrived back where they belonged.

Though it wasn't apparent to anyone else there, Deanna could tell immediately that Tasha seemed wistful each time a well-liked regular paid his tab and left. She'd gotten to know many of the regulars, who knew her by her first name and tipped her well.

But a few longtime patrons didn't get that reaction from Tasha. Shortly after Deanna arrived, one man tossed a $10 onto the bar toward Tasha. The bill just covered the two mixed drinks he'd had. He left lousy tips (when he tipped) and called her "baby", and once even patted her backside as she walked past carrying a tray full of drinks (which was the only reason she didn't kick him out on the spot). Nonetheless, Tasha nodded her thanks as the man left, rung up the sale on the register, then re-emerged from behind the bar. She leaned close to Deanna to speak into her ear, where no one else would hear her.

"That guy is an bigoted asshole," she said. "And I won't miss him _at all."_

Despite herself, Deanna actually laughed when he saw the expression on Tasha's face.

O'Brien notified Will — via text message from Gavin's cellphone — that repairs had been completed at 2330 hours, just as Will arrived at the 43rd to meet up with Deanna.

"O'Brien just contacted me and said the retros are ready to be tested," Will said into Deanna's ear. That had less to do with secrecy and more to do with the band belting alternative bluerock into the crowd at the 43rd. She couldn't have heard him, otherwise.

"I'll stay and walk back with Tasha," Deanna shouted back, over the music. Will could tell she was thoroughly enjoying herself, and had struck up a conversation with several of the bar regulars. Tasha was nowhere to be seen.

"She's dealing with a bachelor party upstairs," Deanna added. "It's already been interesting. I'll tell her you're doing the retro test."

Tasha was busy, slinging beer and maintaining order while alternative "bluerock" belted through the bar from the live band. When it was playing on a CD, or in a more quiet environment, the music that played at the 43rd was tolerable, even enjoyable. But tonight, it just gave him a headache.

Will had tried to turn her into a jazz convert, but hadn't been very successful. Even before she came back to the 21st century, her musical tastes ran toward the loud and edgy...smooth just wasn't her thing. But she'd found a plethora of loud, here. She had accumulated piles of CDs of pirated music, and he'd never bothered to ask where she'd gotten it. _Probably from Shaun Conaghan, or Gary Tobin, or anyone at The Rec,_ he thought.

He ducked outside, walked back behind the 43rd where even the balcony crowd couldn't see what was happening, and signaled for a beam up. Within 10 seconds, he had beamed away.

* * *

**43rd Place, 2340 hours**

She was young, blonde, very drunk, staggering into the bar from the front door. She had been at the 43rd for a couple of hours, partying with friends. Now she was in a panic, nearly dragging two of her equally-intoxicated friends back into the bar with her to report what she'd just seen.

"Oh my God, you have to call the cops!" she said, shouting over the band's music, directly to Gary. Her eyes wide with fear, her pupils twitching from the liquor and ecstasy combo she'd treated herself to, that evening. "This guy just walked out of here, and like . . . vanished!"

"He what?" Gary replied, though Deanna could sense a knee-jerk _uh oh_ reaction within him, even as he nonchalantly listened to the woman's slang-laced tirade.

"He fucking lit up, and, like just disappeared into thin air! I'm totally serious!" she said. Deanna and Gary both realized at the same time what had happened: This intoxicated young woman had just witnessed Will Riker beaming up to the shuttle.

"Does she have a ride home?" Gary asked her companions, trying to distract them from the true rantings of their inebriated friend. _If she saw it, did they see it?_ he thought. _This is not good._

"We're waiting for a cab, but she's like, freaked out about this," one of them replied. "Are you going to call the cops, or what?"

"No, I'm going to check it out first, and if anything is wrong, then I'll call the cops," Gary replied, walking around the bar. He left another manager, Al, to handle the bar alone while he went outside to "check things out", as he'd put it. Gary absolutely _wasn't_ going to call the police if he could possibly avoid it.

"He might still be out there," Gary added, walking out with the group. "You never know wh—,"

"I didn't make this up!" the woman argued. "There was this noise and then he went invisible!"

Deanna followed, now worried that if an inebriated woman had seen Will beaming out and was still articulate enough to describe what had happened, who else might have seen it? She neither saw nor felt any signs from other people hanging around the exterior of the bar that they had seen the same thing. But this woman was insistent, crying, genuinely frightened.

"No, something happened to him! It looked like he got eaten up by fire," she sobbed. "Amy, do you, like, have any Xanax? I'm so totally freaked out, this is way fucked up!"

"What did this man look like?" Deanna asked the woman, hoping that Gary would recognize what she was doing, and play along.

"He was, like, tall, with dark hair and a beard, and he was talking on his cell, and then he like, stopped, right up there by that driveway," the woman said, pointing toward the fragmented pavement that cut through each block with an alleyway. Several shrubs grew next to the sidewalk. _He must have stepped behind them, and into the alley, to beam away,_ Deanna thought. _It was bad timing that she saw anything._

"That sounds like Will," Gary replied, having heard the description. "Will Riggs. He's one of our regulars, and I've got his cell number. Why don't I call him, and make sure he's all right."

"Would you?" the woman asked, desperate. She swiped at her eyes and smeared mascara across her face, but she was too drunk and frightened to care. Gary fiddled with his cellphone.

I hope they haven't already warped out of here, he thought, fleetingly, as a ringtone began echoing through his own cell earpiece.

"Hi, Will, it's Gary . . . yeah, I'm glad I caught you, because there's a young lady here at the 43rd who was worried something had happened to you," Gary bantered.

"Is he okay?" the woman asked.

"—said she saw you disappear into a wall of fire, or something like that," Gary continued. "Sure. She's right here." He handed his cellphone to the woman, who eagerly took it.

"Dude, you scared the piss out of me!" the woman sobbed, then quieted down, seeming to listen to Will speaking with her. "I like totally thought that you were burned up . . . they said they didn't, and they think I'm nuts. . . just, um, ecstacy and RedBulls with vodka . . . are you SERIOUS? Did you like, have problems after you stopped? . . I'm waiting for a cab . . . oh my God, totally never again! I'm just glad you're all right."

Satisfied with whatever Will had said to her over the cellphone, the woman handed it back to Gary.

"Thank you," the woman said. "I was so worried he got, like, burned up." Then her attention was grabbed by something else, a yellow cab pulling alongside the curb only a few feet away. "I think that's our cab. God, I'm like, totally on the wagon, you guys . . . I am never doing X again! Never! Or RedBull, because this guy, he said—"

The girls piled into the cab even as she babbled promises she wasn't likely to remember tomorrow. The vehicle drove away just as Tasha stepped outside to find out what was going on. Later, after she heard some details about the incident from Gary, she found it difficult to keep a straight face for the remainder of her shift, especially after an old friend stopped by the bar just before midnight.

* * *

_**Enterprise**_** Shuttle, just outside Earth orbit, Friday, December 5, 2008, 0245 hours**

Ever the commander, Riker insisted on being present while the retros were tested, even if that meant he was beaming up from a non-secured location so it could be done soon. A cellphone call from Gary Tobin alerted him that a bar patron had seen his departure, and fortunately for all of them, she was intoxicated enough that Will could use that against her, making up a neat, little story about how "ecstasy makes you see things."

"I hope this test goes well," he muttered after hanging up his phone and summarizing to O'Brien, Barajas and Machias what he'd just dealt with from Earth.

Riker would only permit a 50 percent power check. We can't take the chance at full-power, he said, sensing that the crude metal they'd used to repair the retros would only last through one brake cycle. Gavin Machias had told him that. I wouldn't trust them for more than one, Machias had said. It isn't the welds, it's the metal. Titanium isn't designed to take that kind of stress. It'll last through two, maybe three tops. But I'd only bank on one.

But the retros worked well enough that Riker decided they would leave Saturday, December 6. Barajas and O'Brien remained aboard the shuttle for the remainder of the shift, allowing Machias to return to his home. He'd spoken for a long time with Riker after the retro tests. He didn't want to return with them.

Riker shook his head, but nodded at the answer from the Starfleet Ensign who had spent his last decade living on 21st century Earth. He had a family, and a life, far removed in both space and time from Starfleet. Riker had given his word that whatever Machias' decision, he would honor it.

"I've agreed to accept your decision," Riker replied. "And I intend to keep that promise."

Machias nodded. "Doesn't make much sense, does it?

"Not really, no," Riker replied.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Machias said.

"Actually, in this century, you're the captain, and I'm only the commander," Will said. "You go right ahead."

"There's this saying that you can't stop being homesick by coming home all the time, but whomever said that was full of shit," Machias said, and Riker couldn't help but crack a grin. He'd grown to like and respect this young man who wasn't much younger than he was. He knew his stuff, and was also as headstrong as any good captain would be.

"When I went to space on the _Cheyenne_, I was excited to be going, but the whole time I was gone all I wanted was to come back home," Machias remarked, nodding toward the elliptical arc of Earth in the distance.

"And now I'm home," Machias continued. "I'm out of the time I was born in, but I'm in the time that feels right. I am where I belong. I'm a ferry captain. I've got a part-time gig as a deputy. I love where I live and what I'm doing with myself. I'm madly in love with the mother of my children, I'm with the people I love. My mother-in-law regards me as her son, and she's the mother I never had. My own mother died when I was three. I don't want to leave them, and I can't ask them to leave with me. I'm staying."

Riker nodded. At the shuttle's control console, O'Brien remained stoic. He'd heard the details during prolonged repair stints with Machias, and had gotten to know him while he was staying Earthside in their home. He had known all along that Machias would remain behind, and increasingly that had become hard to take. Machias was not only a good machinist, he could rig up nearly anything with next to nothing. O'Brien had developed a great respect for him. He and Machias had become friends, even drinking buddies in the pub near Machias' home. Posing as a second cousin who was visiting from Ireland, O'Brien had fit right into the hard-working, hard-drinking culture of seafarers based in New Brunswick.

Before Riker beamed up, they'd chatted about Machias' options, but only for about 10 seconds. O'Brien knew Machias wouldn't want to return to the 24th century. He was happiest and most productive where he was. O'Brien suspected that a forced return would result in a catastrophic result, and was prepared to defend that assessment should Riker opt to impose the custody option.

O'Brien never imagined that Riker would actually do that, and was relieved to hear Riker abide by the wishes of Gavin Machias.

"I was a kid when I went to space, I wanted adventure," Machias continued. "I think all of us just want to see places, you know? But the whole time we were leaving Spacedock, I kept looking back at Earth and wondering when I'd be on the ocean again. I wondered when I'd go fishing again. And sure, I saw things. I'd never been off Earth before I joined up. I got to go to Alpha Centauri, and I met beings that weren't from our solar system. I found out that I should never bet anything on a game of chess with a Vulcan. I saw nebulas and the stars going by when we were at warp."

As they neared Earth orbit again, the sun crested across the Earth's eastern horizon, illuminating the fragile, blue atmosphere encircling the surface.

"I'd never been anywhere that had our sunrises, or our tides, or a connection I can feel," Machias said. "I won't leave that, again. This is as far away as I ever want to get. We've got a plan for when the war happens. I've got a shelter planned, already. Celice figured out where we could go, and we bought it about three years ago. It had been knocked down in price because no one had bought it. No one wanted it. But we do. It's in a lower space near the outcropping. We'll be fine."

Riker nodded, and couldn't help but smile, even as the shuttle neared beaming range to he could be beamed back to Kansas City. Machias would be beamed back to Earth, for the last time, later that morning.

Will extended his hand.

"You know, I envy you," Will said.

"Sir?" Machias said, firmly shaking Riker's hand.

"Because given those odds, and given the same opportunity, I'd stay on coastal Alaska in a heartbeat," Riker said. He meant it, and Machias knew that. They'd chatted enough to understand their circumstances for leaving their homes were similar enough to yield similar wishes. But only one of them would be granted. Will Riker would return to space, while Gavin Machias would remain at home, shifting tides and all.

* * *

**At the apartment in Kansas City, Missouri, Friday, December 5, 2008, 0400 hours**

Will beamed back from the shuttle directly into the main room of the apartment, fully expecting to see Deanna scrambling awake on the couch. But it was empty. Instead, Deanna was asleep in Tasha's bed, and stirred a bit when Will walked into the bedroom.

"Good morning," Will said, a bit puzzled. "Where's Tasha?"

Deanna yawned. "Oh, she went out with a friend after her shift ended," she replied, her eyes drowsing with sleep threatening to take over, again. "Gary dropped me off. Tasha said her bed was more comfortable than the couch, and she was right."

Will stared at her. "Which friend?"

"Someone named Shaun," she replied. "He arrived just before midnight. I believe he used to work there but now he lives in a different city."

"Oh, that Shaun," Will said. "Yeah, he's a good kid. He's in school in St. Louis."

"I wasn't aware that Tasha had a serious relationship," Deanna said. "Because, it sure felt like that to me."

"Really?" he replied, though he wasn't entirely surprised at yet another hook-up between those two. He was intrigued, however, by Deanna's pronouncement of the feelings she had sensed from Tasha and Shaun.

"Yes, really," Deanna said, stretching beneath the covers. "They were . . . genuinely glad to see each other. Gary told me that they've been involved for some time but that they are only 'friends with benefits'."

"Something like that," Will shrugged, sitting on his bed to take his shoes off, but not before he chucked the cat, who had made himself at home on his pillow, again. "Dammit, KC," he muttered as the cat lumbered away, glaring over his shoulder at Will.

Deanna could sense the cat was somewhat confused. He was used to Tasha being in the apartment.

"Well, I hope Tasha comes back before we leave on Saturday," Will remarked.

"So, we are leaving, then," Deanna said, now wide awake.

"Yes," Will said. "The test went very well. Saturday morning. So, does Shaun Conaghan know we're leaving?"

"He does," she replied. "I don't know who told him, but he mentioned it to me. He believes you two are moving to San Francisco."

"How'd he feel about that?"

"I sensed a wistfulness from both of them," she replied. "It's almost as if there's a reluctance from both of them to take their relationship to that next level."

"They'd be backtracking," Will remarked. "They've already been there and back, several times. They just skipped the middle part."

Deanna sat up in bed, her mouth hanging open. "She's actually discussed that with you?"

Will met her gaze and didn't look away. "We talk about everything," he said. "It is how it is."

She sat on the edge of the bed, allowing her bare feet to touch the floor. In the dim light, he hadn't noticed until then that she was wearing one of his button-up Oxford shirts as a nightgown . . . only she made that shirt look good, and just as quickly, he averted his eyes and forced his mind to think about anything else. . .shoe polish. His black shoes were scuffed up from something. Maybe from the restaurant, maybe aboard the shuttle. It was the first thing that jumped to his distracted mind. Baseball also works, but shoe polish will do the trick just fine, he thought.

Deanna could feel everything, and smiled in the darkness. She was making her point, even without saying a word.

He looked up at her again. "What's wrong?" he asked. Her face was backlit against the window, so her expression was imperceptible. But he could sense something, some intense emotions, flickers from not so far away.

"Nothing's wrong," she replied. "The 'friends with benefits' concept seems interesting, don't you think?"

"Deanna . . ." he began. Suddenly, fixating on shoe polish wasn't working, anymore. Her tousled hair cascaded over her shoulders, the dark curls shining in the streetlights filtering in through the window. She'd unbuttoned the shirt just enough . . . _I'm in trouble,_ he thought. "Why do I get the impression that I'm being lured?"

"Perhaps because you are," she said. "It is so wrong, to deny our feelings for each other?"

"We're serving aboard the same starship, now," he began, even as she stood up and took several steps toward his bed.

"That's in the future," she said.

"We had agreed to keep our romantic relationship in the past."

"We are in the past," Deanna replied, standing in front of him, even as he reached up, toward the still-fastened buttons on the shirt she wore. "Ever want to re-experience part of it? While we're here, what else is stopping us from engaging in benefits?"

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, Friday, December 5, 0615 hours**

Frost illuminated the dead leaves still clinging to trees along 41st street. The eastern sky was pinking up, but the sun was nowhere near cresting over the horizon. It had half-an-hour to go, yet Will Riker was negotiating Westport's shattered sidewalks, carrying a drink holder with three, covered cups of coffee.

He felt . . . well, rejuvenated. Amazing, how a quickie with a true love could invigorate someone.

He had just rounded the corner to his apartment when a motorcycle slowed down in front of him, the stopped on the curb. He glanced up in time to see the back passenger step onto the pavement, swing one leg expertly over the bike, take off a helmet . . .and Will nearly dropped the coffee he was carrying. Tasha Yar was standing there, helmet propped against her side with one arm while the motorcycle's driver hopped off the bike next to her.

Even before the man turned around, Will knew it had to be Shaun Conaghan. The tousled, strawberry blond hair was instantly recognizable. _When did he get a motorcycle? _Will thought.

"You're up awfully early," Tasha said, turning toward Will as he walked alongside them, gingerly stepping around chunks of broken sidewalk so he didn't spill the coffee.

"Speak for yourselves," Will replied. "Hi, Shaun. Nice ride!"

"Yeah, I traded in my pickup," the younger man replied. "Much better gas mileage, better parking, better all around."

"I believe it," Will nodded.

"Hey, I don't want to come across as awkward, or anything, but I've got to get back to St. Louis," Shaun said. "I've got clinicals at 11, today."

"Tash, I'll be inside," Will replied, nodding again to Shaun as if nothing were any big deal. He wanted to give them some measure of privacy, and wondered what Tasha had said to him while they were out 'riding around', as Tasha had put it, once. So he left them at the curb and went up to the apartment, fully expecting Tasha to be up within a few minutes.

* * *

Deanna had finally gotten herself out of bed and was in the bathroom after their unexpected romp only a couple of hours, earlier._ I'm going to be exhausted, today,_ Will thought, suddenly thankful for the strong cup of coffee.

After letting Deanna know that he was back, Will left the coffee in the kitchen and went back downstairs to the front of the apartment building. He found Tasha about where he'd left her, except that Shaun had departed. Now Tasha was sitting on the front stoop, her face stoic.

Will sat beside her, not bothering to ask if he could sit down.

"Any reason why you're sitting out here, when you can be drinking warm coffee inside?"

She shrugged.

"You all right?" he asked.

She shrugged again.

"You doing shoulder exercises, this morning?"

Finally, a slight smile crossed her face.

"Come on, let's go inside."

She leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees. She didn't seem interested in going anywhere. Unconsciously, he reached around her back, gently squeezing her shoulders and rubbing her opposite arm with his hand.

"Things get complicated?" he asked, cutting to the chase.

She nodded.

"They have a tendency to do that, when you see the same person more than once," he replied.

"Shaun's a good person," she said. "I'll miss him."

"Yeah, he is," Will agreed. "What did you tell him?"

"That we're moving to San Francisco on Saturday," she said. "We are going on Saturday, right?"

"Yeah, except we're going to the 24th century and the _USS Enterprise_," he said, hoping the joke wouldn't fall flat, but it did. "Sorry, that was lame."

"Yes, it was," she muttered, then shook her head again. "Dammit . . . I hadn't wanted any baggage. So much for that."

"We all check a bag every once in a while," Will said. "And then we unpack it, put our stuff in a closet and usually don't get it out, again. Usually. But, sometimes it does get out, and when it happens, just enjoy yourself."

Immediately sensing what he hadn't intended to give away, she looked sideways at him, her eyes meeting his for the first time. She saw a spark she hadn't seen in awhile, and a slight smile spread involuntarily across her face.

"Did you really?" she said.

"Did we what?"

"We?" Tasha prompted? "You're making this too easy. At least leave me guessing!"

"We, who?" Will shrugged.

"You said _we,_ and I know you didn't mean me, you meant..."

"So, it's that obvious, huh?"

"It is, to me," she said, smiling. "I think it's great. Thanks for getting coffee, this morning,"

"I figured we'd all need it," Will said. "Come on upstairs and have some while it's still hot."

"OK, I'll be up in a little bit, just. . ."

"Well, I could also send Deanna down here with it," he teased, knowing that the last thing she wanted to do was discuss her feelings with anyone, even with him, especially with a counselor, even if Deanna was a friend.

But this time her eyes lit up, and she turned toward him with a near-devilish look on her face. "Oh, that would be great!" she said, enthusiastically. "Then she can give me all the filthy details."

Will shook his head, but smiled back. "Who's incorrigible now?" he said, giving her a playful shove. "Listen to you!"

"I guess I'm corrupted," she said.

"Nothing wrong with that, in the right circumstances," he said. "Come on upstairs. I need to fill you in on what's happening with the shuttle."

"Everything all right?" she asked, suddenly serious, again.

"Yeah, everything's fine," he replied. Traffic was picking up on the cross streets, and two apartment residents had left through the front doors near the stoop where Will and Tasha were sitting. "Let's go upstairs before those neighbor kids run us over in the hallway."

* * *

**Hopewell, New Brunswick, Canada, Friday, December 5, 2008**

Having gathered literally thousands of digital images, newspapers, numerous transcripts of speech patterns from casual chats with "the locals", as he put it, Louden Kendall had thoroughly enjoyed this Away Mission. He had beamed aboard the shuttle to take O'Brien's place, along with Suravi Bhat, who would be aboard for the first 12 hours of the day, while Barajas stayed with the Tobins.

Miles O'Brien, who hadn't slept in 30 hours, had beamed to New Brunswick at 0800, and Riker ordered a full 24 hours of leave for him. So he slept for awhile, then spent some time doing what he'd done during his leaves on Earth. If he wasn't riding aboard the Ferry or hanging out in the pub, or chatting with Celice or playing with Evan, he was helping Machias repair the roof of his shed, which he couldn't have done on his own.

So that's what O'Brien did on his last day on Earth. It was warm for December, so pleasant that O'Brien didn't even need his coat. A warm wind whipped in from the south, and sea-blue sky draped across the bay, warming those notorious tides slicing across the Bay of Fundy Seagulls chirped at Machias and O'Brien as they hoisted timber atop the workshop roof, sipping on beer and chatting about everything and nothing, knowing that Celice had fresh scallops boiling outside.

Celice's mother had stopped by earlier in the day, dropping off a collection of clothes she'd gotten at the second-hand store up in Moncton for Evan, who was rapidly outgrowing his pants. She reminded Celice of the chili cookoff next weekend at the community center, wondering how Celice was feeling. _Will you be up to helping out at the cookoff? Is Gavin finally going to enter some of that mouth-burning chili?_ Celice had replied that she was convinced this baby would be earlier than its due date. _She'd just have to see how she was feeling,_ she said.

_Well, just do what you can,_ her mother had said, stepping gingerly back down the weather-worn, granite stepping stones near the house. _Just let me know, so I can get you entered in the contest. It'd be a shame to miss out on a Christmas Ham . . ._

They would stay, whether they entered the cookoff or not. With a baby due in less than a month, Gavin and Celice Machias had other things to worry about than winning a 15-lb holiday ham. They had made their decision a week ago. They would stay here, at their home, where they had family and a means to make their living, even in an upcoming age when war, famine and drug-induced catatonia would rule the rest of the western world. Celice knew what was coming, and yet she was steadfast.

"Miles, you need another beer?" she called up from the house. O'Brien liked Celice. She was no-nonsense. He knew exactly where he stood with her. She gladly welcomed a visitor to her home, but was just as quick to reproach O'Brien for not washing his hands and face before meals. O'Brien had immediately gotten sorry the first time he'd neglected to do that, and he hadn't made that same mistake, since.

"I think I'm all right, thanks!" he hollered back from the shed roof.

"How's the view up there?" she asked.

"Looks good!" he replied. The tide was coming in, shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. Gavin was already plotting for the chili cookoff . . . after all, he'd lived for one year in Kansas City. It wasn't a chili city, but those folks did know how to barbecue. Machias had learned plenty while he was living in Kansas City, and his wheels already were turning. It was Celice's family that wanted to enter the contest, but her family had become his family, and their honor was at stake.

_You think if I added lavender to that dry rub, that it would give me the edge?_ Gavin had hollered out to O'Brien, even as he began nailing tar paper to the roof. _I'd just bet that if I got a good dry rub on it, that it would give me the edge. The last pork shoulder I did wasn't sweet enough, and it didn't have that unique flavor. I didn't smoke it long enough! I bet if I added some lavender to it, and let it marinate all night . . ._

O'Brien grinned.

_Life will go on in the past,_ O'Brien said to himself. _They'll be all right._


	27. Chapter 27

**Future's Past, Chapter 27**

* * *

**At the Tobin house in Mission, Kansas Friday, December 5, 2008, 1000 hours**

As soon as they heard that Saturday officially was a "go", Gary and Kim sent the girls off to school, and promptly called in sick to work. They had that game plan to call in, and then send non-descript, bullshit letters to their respective workplaces. Will and Tasha decided that was a great plan, and opted to do the same.

Will and Tasha were both at the Tobin home after the girls had left for the day, finalizing everything.

"Hey, Tasha, can you look at this, and fix it if it sounds stupid?" Gary remarked from his laptop computer. He'd written a letter to leave in their home, so when people inevitably broke down the door during a welfare check, they'd find instructions regarding what to do with belongings they'd left behind.

"Looks good . . ." she began, but then another realization hit her. "Oh fuck, we've got to get this thing notarized!"

Will shot a look at her. "Just when I thought you'd _finally _cleaned up your language."

"Will, no reputable notary would stamp this!" she exclaimed, not backing down. "They'd want a lawyer involved."

"How do you know that?" Gary replied.

"You're ceding money and property," she said. "I read this in the library when we were in there for a week, when the tornado sirens went off, remember that? So, as soon as we go to a notary, she's going to be on the phone to someone . . ."

Will leaned close to her. "Remember the word, 'complicated'?"

She didn't flinch. "This is beyond complicated."

"Pretend I'm Captain Picard," he said.

Now she stared at him. "I think that if Captain Picard had been here for the past two years, he'd say the same thing."

"You really think that?"

"Yes, I do!"

"Look, I'm past caring, at this point," Gary interjected. "Just leave the note the way it is. As long as everything's spelled correctly and it doesn't look like it was written by my next-door neighbors, I'll print it out and leave it on the table for them to find after we leave. Once we get to the 24th century, what are we going to do about it, anyway? The only things I really care about are my family and the three boxes of things we're bringing with us, like pictures and documents. The rest of this crap, I really could care less."

* * *

By late afternoon, 7-year-old Chaney Tobin _knew_ something was up, but any queries were met initially with non-answers from her parents.

Her sister Piper was nearly 4 years old, but seemed oblivious, more interested in seeing what could be found when their mother and father moved furniture out from the wall so the floor could be vacuumed. She pounced on the Skittles that had escaped beneath the couch just after Halloween, after her father opened a trick-or-treat bounty a bit too forcefully, spraying candy all over the living room.

"We're just rearranging, for now," Gary said. "Just making some changes." It wasn't a lie, but Chaney knew it wasn't the complete truth, either. Normally, her dad would have cared if they'd eaten candy off the floor. Today, he didn't seem to care. He seemed preoccupied.

Just after her mother picked her up from school Friday afternoon, Chaney accompanied her to the bank where the Tobins had an account, and was confused about a bank transaction she made.

"Why do we need $50 in pennies, Mom?" Chaney said.

"Because we never know when they might come in handy," Kim replied as the teller began piling rolls of shiny pennies into a woven book bag that Kim had brought along for the occasion. It had been Louden Kendall's idea, and Kim thought it was splendid. Of course she'd help out with this. She would have been glad for him to have done it himself, but she also knew that the bank would have been suspicious of anyone who didn't have an account. She didn't want any trouble, and it would just take a few minutes, so she was glad to run this "historic errand" for him.

Chaney's brow furrowed in confusion. That made no sense to her, at all. "Mrs. Dobson told us that pennies are probably not going to be made, anymore, so why would we need them?"

"To save them," Kim said. "If they aren't going to be made anymore, then we need to preserve some for the future."

"Why do we need to do it now?"

"Because. . .there will come a time when it'll be too late to do things like that," Kim said, inwardly cringing that she might have said too much. She just wanted to swing by the preschool, pick up Piper, and then get the hell home, at that point.

Kim hoped that Deanna Troi would not waste time reaching the house, either. They needed to tell the girls, to give them a few hours before bedtime to absorb what was going to happen, and allow them to choose several of their belongings to bring with them.

Moments like this were when Kim was grateful her girls didn't have every gizmo advertised to them. They had a few toys, a couple of dolls, some books. Each girl had a "favorite" stuffed animal that they'd carried since they were babies, and those certainly would make the trip. Kim wasn't materialistic, but definitely sentimental. Chaney's nearly shredded puppy blanket and Piper's beloved, stuffed alligator Beanie Baby would be stashed in the boxes.

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri, Friday, December 5, 2008, midday**

Deanna took her time, that day, her mood giddy after a pre-dawn romp with Will Riker. That was just what we needed, she mused, deciding to go for a walk. She spent the morning walking through The Plaza, an upscale shopping district located six blocks away from the apartment.

She walked slowly, smiling to herself every so often, while taking in the Holiday season decor, and observing the entertaining shopping rush. Where shopping was considerably more relaxed in the 24th century, Deanna detected considerable stress from people looking for items in the 21st. Some of them weren't finding what they wanted, or they were overwhelmed by what they needed to spend to "keep people happy", as one woman remarked to her.

Deanna didn't want to purchase anything, at all. She glanced at the bus schedule, and opted for an earlier bus to the Tobin's. She welcomed the opportunity to travel by herself, to be able to take the time to see and feel her surroundings.

While enroute on the bus to "the Kansas side", as Gary Tobin called it, she changed her mind about buying something. After she reached the bus stop, she crossed the street and went into the grocery market near the Tobins' home. She still had some money left over from what Will had given her and Louden Kendall when they'd first arrived days ago, and wanted to pick up a treat for the Tobin girls. She knew it was going to be a rough 24 hours for them, and she wanted them to have something they would appreciate.

Deanna never minded sharing chocolate with anyone.

* * *

**At Reconciliation shelter, Kansas City, Missouri, Friday, December 5, 2008, late afternoon**

Tasha wasn't answering her phone, again. That happened frequently, because she always kept the phone on the vibrate setting. _Ringtones are obnoxious,_ she said, _plus they give away your position._ Sometimes she got so wrapped up in what she was doing that she didn't even feel the phone vibrate.

Will knew she was at The Rec, and that sometimes she got so wrapped up in what she was doing there that she didn't even feel the phone vibrate. Other times, she locked it in the desk up front so she could teach self-defense to the people who were staying there. Other times, she felt the vibration but ignored it because she was being blunt with someone, usually a working girl who needed to leave the asshole she was staying with or working for.

But today, Tasha wasn't in the office. She wasn't in the community room, nor in the kitchen. Instead, he found her upstairs, sitting in the foyer beside the small, Orthodox church that operated in conjunction with the community shelter. She was holding a headscarf, and looking sideways toward the sanctuary, where numerous candles had been lit.

Will ducked out of sight, initially worried she might be embarrassed . . . and he was right. She was.

"Hey," she said, somewhat startled but acknowledging him anyway. She looked down at the scarf she had crumpled in her hands.

Like most families living on Turkana before the colony failed, Natasha Yar's family had been Ukrainian Orthodox, but they perished in the cadre-driven apocalypse when Tasha was a young girl. Many members of her family had been burned to death inside their large church at the end of their Turkana City street by cadres, who were hell-bent on destroying the colony's culture so they could create their own.

Tasha had not set foot inside a church sanctuary since the Turkanan government was overthrown. It still was deeply disturbing to her to consider what members of her extended family had gone through in their last moments as fire enveloped the church they'd been trapped in.

Her foster family in Kiev had understood this, though they were believers and attended services at a church there in the Ukrainian capital city. After she arrived on Earth, she'd always sat outside in the foyer, refusing to go inside while her foster family attended services. From what Will initially believed, today was more of the same, except she was holding a headscarf, and the sanctuary was empty.

"How long have you been here?" she asked, still not looking at him.

"I just got here."

She nodded.

"You OK?"

"Yeah," she nodded, again, though Will didn't believe that for a second. "I had to do something," she added.

Will noticed that two of the slim candles looked new, burning taller than the two dozen or so smaller candles illuminating the sanctuary, that without the candles was illuminated only by a skylight. This wasn't a neighborhood where stained glass would have lasted: It would have been shot out from the street, so the church had a ceiling skylight instead, letting in a little bit of heavenly light in lieu of a window icon that other churches were lucky to have.

An Orthodox icon was hanging on the wall behind the rows of candles, illuminated by warm, golden candlelight. Once-melted wax that coagulated into globs near the wooden holes where people had placed those lit candles. Perhaps 30 candles were burning on the stands, though they had obviously been lit earlier in the day and had nearly burned themselves out. Two candles stood in brand-new solitude.

"What are the candles for?" Will asked.

"One was for my family, the other was for all the people here that we're leaving behind," she found herself saying, out loud.

Will had seen that ritual before, at the church in Cordova when he attended a wedding with one of his young friends and their parents, though he didn't often understand the reasons why it was done. But here, it made perfect sense to him why she'd lit the candles. And he recognized what a huge step it was for her to even consider going into a church, even to do something in remembrance of others.

"Thank you for doing that," Will said.

She looked at him.

"I mean it," he said.

"I didn't think you were a believer."

"I'm not," he replied. "I didn't know you were."

"I'm not," she said. "But my family was, and these people are. They don't have much time left."

* * *

**On a KC Metro bus traveling down Main Street, Dec. 5, 2008, 1630 hours**

Fellow Rec worker LaDonna, who knew Tasha was "moving to San Fran", had nearly cut off her oxygen giving her a big hug, then did the same to Will before they left. LaDonna had taken to good-naturedly teasing Will by calling him "the sweet piece of meat" after all of the mosquito bites he'd acquired during the Rec's campout last summer, which by then seemed like a lifetime ago.

By tomorrow evening, it would be many lifetimes ago.

Night was falling, so they opted to ride the bus back to their apartment. Gary would be stopping by in his car within the hour to pick up a box of their belongings, plus KC the cat. He would take them to the Tobin house that night, lessening the need for Will and Tasha to lug their belongings (plus a cat) halfway across town tomorrow morning.

They climbed aboard the bus and sat on a sideways-sitting bench nearest to the side door, and the bus began its multi-stop trip down Broadway. Tasha bore an impassive expression, but she wasn't fooling Will, at all. He rested his hand between her shoulder blades, and gently rubbed her back. She pretended not to notice at first, as he knew she'd do. Within a few more seconds, he'd slipped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her a bit, so she'd lean sideways against him.

Even as she sat with the side of her head resting against his shoulder, Tasha still didn't look at him. She reached with one hand to smooth back a lock of hair that had fallen into her face, but kept her gaze fixed on the scuffed-up bus floor, where months-old chewing gum was embedded in the non-skid, floor treads. It was a sad sight, a parable of sorts, an entire society that didn't give a shit, chewed, spit out and walked over.

Will wondered fleetingly if there were anyone else in the 24th century that Tasha would trust to lean against, like that...and knew immediately that he was it. She'd never admit to anyone she was hurting about anything, except Deanna, and that was only because no one could fool Deanna. Tasha's face remained expressionless, but Will knew her well enough to understand she was crying inside.

"They need to help themselves if they're going to live," he finally said. "They need to quit using, they need to quit making excuses and make the best—"

"I've been telling them that," she muttered.

"Then, you did what you can do, and the rest if up to them," he said.

* * *

**At the Tobin home in Mission, Kansas, 1930 hours**

"Why are you shampooing the carpets now?" Gary was frustrated. _What the hell is Kim doing? _he thought._ She'd never particularly cared what the world thought of her house before, why would she care what they thought after she's long gone?_

She was dragging a borrowed, steam cleaner across the living room carpet, which meant that she'd gone across the street earlier in the day to borrow it from the only neighbor that the Tobins cared to speak with; an older couple. Kim was in a cleaning flurry, and normally Gary would have stayed out of her way, but today they had too much on their plates to really worry about stains on the carpet.

"The girls got ketchup on th—," she began.

"We don't have time for that," Gary began. "Now the whole carpet is going to be wet."

"I'm not leaving this place a mess," she said, not even looking up. "And I'm only doing the area in front of the couch."

Gary threw his hands up. He knew there was no changing her mind, once she'd fixated herself on a task. He walked back into the kitchen to sort through one last box of documents he'd removed earlier from the attic.

* * *

"Mom, where are we going?" Chaney asked.

Kim glanced at Chaney, hoping to stall her as long as possible. "Well, nowhere today," she replied. _I'm still not lying to her,_ Kim thought. _Let's see how much longer I can pull this off._

"Then why are you putting our things into boxes?" Chaney said. She knew something was happening, she just didn't know what it was, yet. All the people rotating in and out of her house, going to "work", and now things were going into boxes.

"Just keeping everything together," Kim replied. She had already decided she wouldn't lie to either of her daughters, but she and Gary had agreed they wouldn't discuss their destination with the girls until the night before they left, because Chaney was likely to blab the exciting news to anyone who would listen. . .and tonight was that night they'd get to have that chat. Gary wasn't home, yet. He was running a couple of errands, namely to pick up Will and Tasha's belongings and their cat.

_That'll be interesting,_ Kim mused. She was glad that Julio Barajas would be accompanying Gary on that trip, and she hoped they would leave soon. Gary didn't particularly care for cats, and he'd never met a cat that cared for him, either.

"You know what?" Kim said, not answering Chaney's question but instead attempting to distract her. "Will and Tasha's cat is going to come stay with us for awhile."

"They have a cat?" Chaney said.

"They do," Kim said. "His name is KC, and he's going to be coming over in a couple of hours."

"How long is he staying?"

"Not long," Kim replied.

"Are they moving?"

"Yes, they're moving."

"So, we get to keep the cat?" Chaney couldn't contain her excitement.

"No," Kim said. "We'll just have him until they're ready to move to a new place."

"Oh," Chaney replied, absently grasping the side of the table that held all three boxes. She glanced inside at the collection of items, recognizing a clay pot she'd made when she was in kindergarten.

"Mom, if we can't keep the cat, can we get a guinea pig?"

Kim made a face. "No, we're not getting a guinea pig."

"Why not?"

"They're loud, and they smell. . ."

"But they're very good to eat," Barajas remarked.

Chaney's mouth fell open. "You eat guinea pigs?"

"I grew up eating guinea pigs," he said. "Stuffed with peppers, garlic, onions, wrapped in banana leaves and cooked slowly . . . mmmm . . ."

"Where do they eat guinea pigs?" Chaney seemed aghast at the thought. Her first-grade teacher had two guinea pigs. They were cute and furry and made squeaking noises anytime someone rattled a plastic bag . . . especially a plastic bag that had carrots or lettuce inside it.

"In Mexico, in South America, various places," Barajas said. "My grandmother made them for us all the time."

"Our neighbors eat squirrels that get mushed on the street," Chaney countered.

"Chaney..." Kim started, unable to contain a smile, even as she stuffed a small handprint made in plaster into one of the boxes.

By 1830 hours, Gary had returned from Will and Tasha's apartment. They had only one box of belongings in which they'd consolidated some mementos, plus a scared cat had wedged himself beneath the driver's seat shortly after Tasha had deposited him into Gary's car. KC had yowled the entire way to the house. He even swatted at Gary's legs from beneath the driver's seat.

Gary gladly agreed to return the steam cleaner to the neighbor across the street, in exchange for Kim's retrieving the cat from his car.

"Where did Tasha find this cat?" Kim remarked, after hoisting it from the car and carrying it into the house. "He's huge. He must weigh 10 kilos."

Large size or not, squeals of delight from the Tobin girls promptly drove the frightened animal into the back bedrooms, and beneath the first structure it could find: Piper's bed.

The girls followed him, cajoling to him to _please_ come out. But his orange tail bristled and his pupils remained dilated with alarm. He wanted no stranger cuddling him at that point. But within 30 minutes, the girls disappeared and left KC to his relative confusion in new surroundings. The girls were lured into the living room by Deanna Troi, who had Hershey's chocolate bars to sweeten the news they were about to hear.

Deanna was glad to be staying with the Tobins, tonight, and just as glad to give Will and Tasha some breathing space. She sensed that they needed some time to themselves.

* * *

**Will and Tasha's apartment, December 5, 2008, 2330 hours**

Everything was ready to go: A letter to their landlord, plus an entire month of rent to make up their lease, which would end in December. Tomorrow morning, they would put their apartment keys in that envelope, leave it in the mailbox, and walk out of the building, leaving their piecemeal furnishings to the next tenant.

Both Will and Tasha were exhausted, but their minds were a tumult. Neither said much to each other. They had one set of clothes ready for the next morning. The rest, they had bagged up and left in the main room of the otherwise spotless apartment, next to the furniture they'd gathered over the months.

Neither of them was in any mood to deal with crowds, that evening. They did go out to Tasha's favorite restaurant, a Middle Eastern place in Westport, and had a relatively quiet dinner, engaging in small talk, mostly.

They gave their apartment an extra-thorough cleaning that night. Riker always liked a tidy cabin. Tasha mostly wanted something to do to take her mind off things.

By 2300 hours, they were in their respective beds. They were physically exhausted, but nowhere close to being asleep.

"I know you're still awake," he said, out of the blue.

"Oh, yeah," she said, sitting up, then leaning against the wall. She looked out the window just above her head and to her right. The streetlight filtered through the venetian blinds and into the room.

"I can't sleep, either," he said. "Would you go through it all over again? If you had the choice?"

She looked at him, then away, then back again. "Yeah, I would have!"

"Me, too," Will said.

Less than a minute of silence passed before Will added, "We had some good times. Now we'll be bored on the ship."

"We'll be too busy catching up, even if time didn't pass for the ship," she remarked.

"Weren't we on the way to someone's annual review when this happened?"

She began laughing. "Yeah, we were getting ready to give Ensign Barajas his review."

"Were we really?" Will asked. "You're being serious, right?"

"Yes, I'm being serious!"

"So, he's probably been down here the whole time, stressed-out about his personnel review," he said. "I honestly didn't remember whom we were reviewing. I guess senility sets in at 29."

"Does it?"

He looked across the room. "You're rubbing that in."

"You beat me to it, fair and square," she said.

"I was born two years before you were! Of course I beat you there," he remarked. "I wonder how they'll deal with the age differences. Are you going to be listed as 27 or 29?"

"I think they put an asterisk beside the birthday if time travel results in age differences," she said.

"All right, since I'm older than you, and I outrank you—," he stammered. "Ah, fuck it. I'm just rambling."

She stared at him, her eyes widening. "I can't believe you actually said 'fuck'," she remarked.

"I've spent too much time around you," he teased.

* * *

"Do you ever wish you'd gotten to know these people better?" she remarked "The people we see every day, our neighbors, our co-workers..."

"Yeah, I do," Will replied. "I'm planning on looking them up when we get back, to see what happened to them."

"I wonder about the people we saw who we didn't know that well," she said. "That family that lives upstairs, who faithfully wake us up at 0600 every weekday morning . . ."

"I don't even know their last name," Will said.

"The mom's name is Laurinda, but I don't know the kids' names."

"How'd you know that? She never would speak to me."

"Well, I'll be blunt," she said. "She spoke to me a lot about you. She told me that you were using me, and sleeping around on me . . ."

"_She_ was the neighbor who told you?"

"She was one of them," Tasha remarked, recalling an earlier time when their apartment door might as well have been a revolving door for numerous women that Will Riker had romanced before Tasha finally put her foot down. That issue had set off two of the worst arguments that she and Will had during their time on Earth. Tasha was so angry with him at one point that she'd left for more than three weeks.

"Can I say something?"

"You're already saying something," he replied.

"Thank you for not bringing a date up here, tonight."

Will glanced at her, again, and then began laughing.

* * *

"I figure if we made it through the things we've been through, that we didn't throttle each other through the tough times, that we'll make it through whatever else comes our way," Will said.

"I won't miss your snoring," she said.

"I won't miss the high pollen counts that made me snore."

"I'd bet Beverly Crusher is going to be waiting for you with those immuno treatments."

"That's a pleasant thought," Will remarked. "Something to look forward to."

"We never did have that talk," Tasha said.

"Do we need to?"

She shrugged, her eyes following the venetian blind shadows on the opposite wall. From the street beside the apartment complex, a passing car's headlights moved those shadows across the room.

"Things will be different," she said.

"Well, in my experience, the more things change, the more they stay the same," Will said. "We'll see each other on the bridge. We'll go on Away Missions, we'll be in staff conferences, you'll be doing your thing, I'll be doing my thing. You'll remind me of all the regulations I've broken during security ratings time . . . and those are coming up, by the way, so I'm bracing myself. And then I'll write you up for something trivial and you'll be hacked off at me for a couple of hours and then we'll start talking again."

"So in 21st century terms, we're cool?"

Will nodded. "Always," he said.

* * *

**Aboard the Stealth Shuttle, December 6, 2008, 0600 hours**

Miles O'Brien signaled for a beam-up at 0600 from New Brunswick, after some gruff good-byes from Gavin and Celice Machias. Gavin had given O'Brien some mementos to take back and give to his father. It was tough for both men, who had become good friends and had developed a kinship of sorts, but O'Brien had preflight to prepare, and Machias had to be at work on the ferry, that morning.

* * *

**Tobin residence in Mission, Kansas, Saturday, December 6, 2008, 0630 hours**

At the Tobin house, everyone woke up early enough to have a shower and a good breakfast. The girls watch cartoons and then Kansas City's local, morning news was on. The anchors bantered about everything from shootings and car wrecks that had occurred overnight to snow that was expected tomorrow.

But it all became background noise in the rush that was happening in the house in Mission, Kansas.

Deanna was extremely relieved at the reaction from Chaney Tobin. She was sad about leaving her friends and understood she would not see them, again. But mostly, she sensed excitement about the pending change.

The girls had seen Barajas beam away, then Bhat beam in, and now Kendall beamed in. Piper was young enough that Deanna sensed she was already used to the novelty of seeing people disappear and reappear, again. Chaney was more curious than anything.

"Does it burn?" Chaney asked Bhat.

"No, there's a tingling sensation," Bhat said. "It won't hurt, at all."

"Does it tickle?"

"Well, maybe a little at the beginning and a little at the end . . ."

"Is that how I'll be going to school?"

"Probably not," Bhat said, smiling. "At least, not in my experience. I had to walk to my school."

"Oh, well," Chaney replied. "Some things never change."

Kim shook her head, laughing a bit at flippant observation as she glanced at the clock. It was already 0730. Will and Tasha would be by within the hour, and then they could begin beaming up. She hoped Tasha would able to extricate the cat from beneath Piper's bed, where he'd stayed all night.

At first, Piper had delighted that KC had chosen to hide beneath _her_ bed. She reasoned that meant that the cat liked her better than anyone else. This upset Chaney, who dissolved into outraged tears at the pronouncement. But by 0100 hours, more than five hours after the girls went to bed, Piper meekly had crawled into bed with her parents. She declared that she "didn't want to sleep on a cat".

"He's probably asleep, too," Kim said, barely awake, herself.

"But I can see his eyeballs!" Piper said.

Rather than reason with her or firmly sending her back to bed, Kim just pulled her into the bed between her and Gary, who groaned and rolled over. _Might as well get used to this,_ Kim thought. _They'll both be in our bed for the first few nights until they get their bearings._

* * *

**Bus stop at 43rd & Broadway, 0650 hours**

Will and Tasha, who had spent most of the night traversing between easy chatter and fitful sleep, had gotten up at 0600, showered, and walked to their favorite coffee shop for final cups of real coffee. Will dropped the envelope and keys to their apartment into the landlord's mailbox.

They began waiting for the bus at 0645, more than an hour earlier than they'd planned. It was cold out, below freezing. Buses were filling up with people heading to work, and with a few who were heading home from various night shifts.

Inwardly, Tasha had worried they might miss the bus that passed by that station every half-hour, the one that went into the Kansas side down Shawnee Mission Parkway. But they wouldn't have long to wait, and for that she initially was grateful. She knew if she sat for any length of time, she'd look around too much, remember too much and probably get more upset than she intended. That wouldn't have been professional. She didn't dare glance east at the 43rd Bar and Grill, which was just 100 yards up the street from where she stood.

The cold front had passed earlier that night, and chilly air cut through even the double-layers that Tasha wore. The sun wouldn't crest the eastern horizon for another 10 minutes, and streetlights still illuminated the creeping dawn. She crossed her arms in front of her, trying not to shiver as they waited for the bus to crest the hill to their north.

They hadn't said much while they were waiting. Will was standing slightly behind her, noticed her shivering, and wordlessly reached up to rub her shoulders with his hands in an attempt to warm her up, then enfolded her in an embrace from behind. He didn't care that this world (nor any other) could see him holding a subordinate, and not just to help keep her warm until the bus showed up.

"How did you put up with me?" Tasha ventured first, her breath fogging against the frigid air. However aimless the past 20 months had seemed, they'd both grown as people, and had become best friends in the process.

"No, how did you put up with _me_," he replied. He rested the side of his face against the one side of hers. "You're like the little sister I never had until we wound up here. You knew how to push my buttons, especially when I was being stubborn. I needed that. And I need you to know that."

Tasha was silent for a few seconds, hardly knowing at first what to say as she relaxed in his embrace. She reached up, her hands gently resting atop his arms as they folded more tightly around her.

"I missed being a little sister," she replied, finally, and for the first time, she didn't feel wistful or sad when speaking of the loss of her older brother, Alek, all those years ago. "I liked pestering someone, again."

"It's been fun."

"I'll miss the fun parts," she said.

"I could have done without dumpster diving," Will ventured. "Or the fights."

"Yeah, definitely," she said.

"But it was all part of the journey," he added, pulling away a bit so he could drape one arm around both her shoulders and look sideways at her. "You OK?"

She nodded, maintaining her downcast gaze, knowing if she even glanced up at him that it would be all over for her composure. "I'm all right," she finally replied.

"Bullshit, but OK," he said, pulling her close again. She snuggled into his warm embrace, slipping her own arms around him at the same time and turning her head slightly so her cheek rested against his shoulder. "Thanks for seeing the good," he whispered into her hair.

"Thanks for showing me how," she replied.

"That's what big brothers are supposed to do, I guess," he said. "I've never been one, before."

"You do well with it," she said, and then glanced sideways as a bus rumbled to a stop along the curb and some of the waiting people began boarding it. But neither Will nor Tasha moved, even as the driver glanced at them, then shrugged and shut the door. The engine revved up, belching exhaust out the back grid and across Broadway as the bus pulled away.

"I think that was our bus," Tasha said after a few seconds.

"You know, I think you're right," Will said, not sounding too concerned. "Oh well."

She laughed a bit, burying her face against his shoulder. "Yeah, oops," she said, her voice muffled.

"We'll catch the next one," he added, glad for the extra time that he could spend with her, before the relative whirlwind of the 24th century was upon them. He knew he'd miss this, being able to hold Tasha openly, without chain of command repercussions. "That all right with you?"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

**At the Tobin house, 0745 hours**

As soon as Will and Tasha arrived at the house, the transformation in KC the cat was instantaneous. At the sound of Tasha's voice, he came out from beneath his hiding place, and never left her side, even allowing Chaney and Piper to pet him, as long as Tasha was holding him.

But when the beam-ups began, the transporter beam emitted a high-pitched tone that KC did not like at all, and he nearly bolted for the bedroom, again. But Tasha held him tightly, preventing his escape.

"I'll hold the cat when we beam up," Tasha remarked to Will.

"That's good," Will replied. "I don't want to be the one getting clawed up after we materialize on the shuttle."

Chaney emerged from the bathroom first, just as Deanna Troi and Suravi Bhat were beamed aboard the shuttle.

"Now, stand right here, right on this spot," Kim told Chaney. "Just stand there, and breathe normally until you start to feel tingly, then hold your breath."

"Okay," Chaney said, apprehensive for the first time. But she did as she was told, and in a tingly instant, she held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut. The tingly feeling stopped, but she didn't dare open her eyes. _Am I supposed to move, yet?_ she thought.

"Chaney, we're here," Kim said. "We're on the shuttle."

"You can open your eyes and breathe, now," Deanna said, sensing the girl's reluctance to do anything, at that point. "It's all right."

Chaney opened both eyes, and looked around at the shuttle's interior. She was standing on a circle, and the boxes holding their belongings were piled up nearby. Her mother was in front of her, and the nice lady who had brought chocolate bars to the house last night was there, too.

"Come on over here," Kim said, leading Chaney off the transporter platform, so she could stand next to the transporter control unit that Barajas was operating. "We can watch Daddy and Piper being beamed up, too."

"It didn't tickle," Chaney said. "It just was tingly."

"Shuttle to Riker, ready when you are," Barajas communicated.

"Standby one," Riker's voice came back, and within a minute, he signaled again. "All right, two to beam up from the mark."

"Now just watch," Kim said as the transporter unit began humming, and a single beam of light came through. Gary was holding Piper. "Here they come!"

A smile erupted across Chaney's face when she saw her father and sister.

"Piper, honey, you can open your eyes," Gary said, stepping off the platform. But Piper's eyes already were open. It was just another new experience, to her.

"That was fun, can we go again?" Piper said.

Barajas radioed again. "Shuttle to Riker, ready when you are."

"Stand by one," he radioed back, then after ten seconds, he radioed again. "All right, Riker to shuttle, three to beam up."

* * *

Seconds later, Will and Tasha materialized aboard the shuttle. They were facing forward, but looking sideways at each other.

Tasha was holding KC, who was unexpectedly calm even after he looked around. But Tasha knew he only seemed calm because he was so terrified that he didn't want to move. She could feel the cat trembling, tense in an explosive way.

"He's so frightened," Deanna remarked, sensing the animal's fright, then turned toward Bhat. "Is there something that you can give him?"

She shook her head. "I can give him a light sedative for the post-transport sensations, but other than that, he needs to get used to the vibrations aboard a ship," Bhat replied. "This would be a good opportunity for him to do that before he's aboard the _Enterprise_. I would recommend against medicating him."

Tasha nodded her head. "I'd be willing to bet that another loud noise from a hypo spray might make things worse for an instant, but I'd rather he be calm during the time warp. I'll hold him in my lap while we're enroute."

Chaney and Piper were already peering into the shuttle's cockpit, marveling at the view of Earth, but still too young to recognize much. Riker gave them a minute to look, then directed everyone to take a seat. They needed to leave orbit, before some other piece of space junk struck them. It was time to warp back to the 24th century.


	28. Chapter 28

_I've had so much fun writing this. Thank you so much for your input through all of it, and for taking this journey with me. Y'all are awesome!_

_Ali_

* * *

**Future's Past, Chapter 28**

* * *

**Aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_**, 2364**

Jean-Luc Picard already had been pacing the bridge for the past 10 minutes—an interminably long time, even compared to the past 37 hours that an Away Team had been dispatched on a rescue mission.

He'd learned to appreciate the three people who normally surrounded him. To his right would have been the _Enterprise_'s First Officer, upwardly mobile and whip-smart with command decisions, keeping Picard on his toes by nipping at his heels; at his left would have been the ship's counselor, whose empathic abilities were matched also by her tact and often blunt advice; and the security chief, who stood directly behind and above, literally having the Captain's back.

Two of them, Com. William Riker and Lt. Natasha Yar, had been missing from the _Enterprise_ for eight days by now, stuck in a time warp that evidently had catapulted them back more than 350 years. Counselor Deanna Troi was part of a five-member Away Team sent back in time as part of the rescue mission that had departed just over 36 hours ago.

As Picard was preparing to turn in for the night and had briefed the night bridge crew for their shift, Lt. Worf relayed a subspace transmission from the _USS Helena_: They had received a locator transmission from the _Enterprise_'s shuttle, reporting their safe return from a time warp. Within minutes, Picard was back on the bridge, and soon found it difficult to remain in his captain's chair, mostly because of the empty spaces on either side of him.

Though time warp wasn't a common occurrence, it had happened enough that Starfleet now had a procedure for it, and that included cooperative relay of current stardate and time. The shuttle relayed its position, direction of travel, passenger count and ETA: Eleven humanoid, one feline, ETA of 21 minutes to the USS _Enterprise_.

_And a cat,_ Picard had mused, reporting back to the bridge. _Interesting._

* * *

**In Shuttlebay Two, 1330 hours**

Picard stood in Shuttlebay Two, beside Lt. Worf and Dr. Beverly Crusher as the shuttle landed. There was evident damage to one side, and evident patchwork that had been done as well to repair it. But it appeared to handle well, and set down without a hitch. Commander Riker disembarked first, his bearded and relatively relaxed face a surprising sight for those waiting in the shuttlebay. He looked nothing like the uptight officer who had disappeared merely eight days earlier, when he and Lt. Yar had vanished from the _Enterprise_.

Picard had swallowed an initial impulse to say, "Number One, report", believing—correctly—that it would have been a loaded question. But he couldn't help but smile. "Welcome back, Number One," Picard said, instead.

Riker strode toward the group, still clad in his 21st century Dockers and button-up shirt and extending his hand toward Picard, who was a bit perplexed at first at the gesture.

"It's great to be back, sir," Riker replied, nodding also to Worf and Dr. Crusher, who already had whipped out her tricorder to give him the once-over.

"A full beard in eight days," Picard remarked. "Quite an impressive makeover, Commander."

That was when Picard learned that eight days to the _Enterprise_ was 20 months for Will Riker and Natasha Yar, and more than 10 years for the Tobins. He also was told that the Tobins brought their two children with them, and that Gavin Machias had refused to travel to the 24th century.

"There will be time for explanations during the debrief," Picard responded, then cast a glance at Dr. Crusher, who was frowning at something on her tricorder.

"So, how am I?" Riker remarked, half-teasing, hoping fervently that she wouldn't bring up anything overly embarrassing so soon after his arrival.

"Aside from toxin accumulation consistent with that amount of time spent in the 21st century, you are stable and non-contagious," she replied. She glanced up at Will with a 'you need to see me later' look. "But I'll need to run more tests."

* * *

Miles O'Brien, who had piloted the shuttle during its time warp and landing, had left post-flight to Lt. Louden Kendall and Ensign Julio Barajas while he strode outside the shuttle to see how the retros had held up. He stood in the shuttle bay and smiled. _The joints look great,_ he mused. He'd known even before landing that they'd worked well. They'd arrived only 15 minutes behind time of their originally planned arrival, which wasn't bad for a literal spit-weld of retro brakes. He grinned broadly, inspecting the patches. "Not even a crack!" he declared.

The Tobin family had just disembarked, walking with Suravi Bhat. Gary and Kim were relieved, looking at a ship's shuttlebay with a feeling of deja-vu. Their daughters were looking around, mostly curious about their surroundings while staying close to their parents. Lt. Worf strode toward them to introduce himself . . . and that's when 4-year-old Piper lost it. She glanced up at the towering, Klingon officer and ran screaming back up the ramp of the shuttle. She literally crashed into Counselor Deanna Troi, who scooped up the child into her arms as she disembarked.

"I want to go back home!" Piper cried.

"It's all right," Deanna said, carrying Piper back out of the shuttle and walking toward her parents. "His name is Lt. Worf, and he's a friend of mine. He's like a police officer. He helps keep us safe."

Gary and Kim, horrified that their daughter had made so much noise aboard the _Enterprise_, offered immediate apologies to Lt. Worf. Chaney was inwardly frightened, but didn't show it. As soon as Deanna moved closer to the Tobins, Piper moved out of her arms and latched onto her father. She kept a wary eye on Lt. Worf.

"Why is his head all bumpy?" Piper asked.

"I am a Klingon," Worf replied, and Deanna was immediately moved by how he had altered the tone of his voice to accommodate a frightened child who had never before seen a Klingon. She knew that he'd spent his childhood on Earth amongst other children who had similar fears, and suspected he wasn't at all offended or put off. He was used to this.

"So, you didn't get run over by the lawn mower," Chaney ventured.

"Chaney—," Kim interrupted.

"No, I did not sustain a childhood accident," Worf replied. He'd heard that line, too. He vowed to query the term "lawn mower" during his nightly review. By then, Piper and Chaney were both full of questions, even as Tasha Yar disembarked the shuttle behind the Tobins, and passed by so she could confer with Picard.

"Are those your merit badges?" Chaney asked, nodding to the gold sash across his uniform.

"They represent the insignia of my Klingon home world," Worf replied. "They could be regarded as badges of merit."

_The girls are buttering Worf up,_ Tasha thought, then stood at attention. "Permission to come aboard, sir," she said to the captain.

"Permission granted, lieutenant," Picard replied, a second smile breaking through his usual, icy demeanor as he regarded how much Tasha Yar had changed, as well. Her hair was longer and she wore casual bluejeans, a knit shirt and jacket. Her eyes still bore the same intensity, but also an expressive friendliness that he hadn't noticed, before. It was almost as if her soul, which had been scarred by a brutal childhood, had been reborn.

* * *

**In Sickbay, 1415 hours**

"—cut them, with scissors," Tasha said. She had just unwrapped the sutured wound on her hand, her latest battle scar acquired though her temporary career working in a bar. She had received her latest sutures 10 days ago, and now it was time for the sutures to come out.

But no one in the 24th century had ever seen sutures placed, let alone removed them.

Having had her share of sutures in the 21st century, Tasha knew how it was supposed to be done. "You know, the second time I got sewn up, I learned how to do sutures. It's easier to put the sutures in than it is to take them out."

Beverly Crusher just shook her head, and used a laser-cutting tool, instead. Suravi Bhat already had filed a detailed report regarding the various injuries and maladies to befall Natasha Yar during her stay on Earth. Crusher hadn't even gotten to Will Riker's file, yet, but she suspected it was just as interesting. Bhat had told her that he'd sustained somewhat moderate burns and a badly sprained ankle, also.

"Between you being sewn up and Will Riker being burned . . . anything else I need to know about?" Crusher asked.

Tasha shrugged. "I don't know," she replied. "Anything come up on the scanner that I need to know about?"

"You are being a smartass," Crusher said, snipping the sutures, then readjusting the tool to a grip mode so it could gently pull the strands of suture thread from the wound. "But frankly, I'd be genuinely worried about you if you weren't."

"Did you expect any less?" Tasha replied, unable to keep from grinning a bit.

"Not from you," Crusher sighed. "I know how much you love being in sickbay. Alyssa, how's the cat?"

Nurse Alyssa Ogawa was completing her scan of KC, who could have cared less what was happening to him, at that point. He was in cat heaven, lying on a special, herbal exam mat that Dr. Crusher affectionately called, "the catnip cart". It was designed to put cats at ease during veterinary treatments, and KC was purring contentedly, popping his claws against the non-snag mesh to release more of the fragrance.

"He looks good, Doctor," Ogawa reported. "He's very large, but not overweight. From our database and his DNA samples, his size is normal for his breed. He'll need consistent hairball prevention treatments and his taurine levels are borderline low, but I don't see any permanent damage."

"What's taurine?" Tasha asked.

"Taurine is an amino acid that cats need," Crusher replied, disposing of the suture threads. "The meal supplements that were available in the 21st century probably didn't have added taurine or insufficient amounts of it. We'll give him a booster. Now that we know he likes catnip, would you like one of these mats in your cabin?"

"If it would help him relax, sure," Tasha replied.

"I'm surprised you weren't clawed to shreds," Ogawa said. "The last cat that came aboard the _Enterprise_ didn't react well to the ship's vibrations."

"As long as he was sitting in my lap, he was fine," Tasha said. "He didn't start yowling until I put him in the carrier to be on the safe side while we were disembarking."

"Where'd you find him?"

"He was dumped on the street corner near a shelter where I volunteered. His littermates were killed trying to cross the street. KC was the only one who made it across. No one else wanted him, so I brought him to the apartment."

"I thought Commander Riker didn't like cats," Crusher said.

"He doesn't," Tasha replied. "And the feeling is mutual from KC, here. They spent a lot of time antagonizing each other."

"Well, I think that probably was good for him," Crusher smiled.

"It was," Tasha agreed. "But he'd never admit it."

* * *

**Captain Picard's ready room, 1500 hours**

Picard was somewhat irked, but he understood the directive that medical care came before any debriefing. Each of the travelers—including the Away Team that only was gone for 8 days—went through a physical check-up prior to being released aboard the ship.

After the Tobins were settled into a guest cabin and Tasha began a quick, security briefing with Lt. Worf, Deanna Troi chimed into Picard's ready room, where he was preparing a preliminary report to Starfleet.

True to form, she cut right to the point.

"Sir, while the Tobin children are acclimating as well as can be expected, I sense a great deal of tension, bordering on grief, from their parents and from our two, senior staff members who also were stranded by the time warp," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"The friends they made are now dead," she replied. "The events they attended, their workplaces, don't exist any more. They are not mourning outwardly, but I sense a deep struggle within each of them to reconcile what happened to the people and places they knew."

"Then, make that so," Picard said, then paused. "Dismissed."

She started to leave, then turned back toward him even before he said, "Counselor."

"Yes, sir."

"Would an additional day aboard this ship benefit Commander Riker and Lt. Yar, before they resume their duties?" Picard asked. "To allow them time to reacclimate and an opportunity to tie up those internal queries?"

"It would be beneficial, though more time than that probably would not be helpful. Both officers are anxious to return to their duties, but far enough removed from them that they feel as if they're in a deja-vu fog, so to speak. Admittedly, I feel a bit like that now, and I was only off the ship for fifteen days."

"Eight days, counselor," Picard said.

"Actually, it was two weeks of my time," Troi reminded him. "That's what is so insidious about time travel. It is relative for those involved. Time has barely passed here on the _Enterprise_. But days have passed for me and four members of the rescue crew. Months have passed for Commander Riker and Lt. Yar, and years have passed for Gary and Kim Tobin. We're all still trying to get our bearings."

Picard nodded. "I see your point."

"While it's important that these officers regain their footing and resume their duties as soon as possible, it's imperative that they not be rushed after so much time away, lest there be frustration and mistakes that are, frankly, avoidable. I don't think either Commander Riker or Lt. Yar will be too anxious to walk past or go into the holodeck for the time being."

"And I don't blame them," Picard said. "Counselor, how has this experience impacted both of these officers?"

"I think the experience led to a great deal of growth in both of them."

"How so?"

"They were out of their element and had to adapt," she said.

"Allow me to be blunt," Picard said. "How did it affect their relationship?"

"Their relationship, sir?" she asked, though she knew exactly where he was headed.

He cast a semi-sarcastic glance in her direction. "You know what I'm talking about."

"Com. Riker and Lt. Yar are not romantically involved," Troi replied, choosing to not go there about her own, brief dalliance with Will Riker while they were on Earth. "They have a very close friendship. From everything they told me and all that I've sensed, their relationship evolved from formal to confrontational to cordial and then to a close friendship."

"Would that close friendship affect the chain of command."

"Not severely," Troi responded.

Picard intensely looked at her, a gesture that wasn't lost on her. "That was a quick response," he said, simply.

"As I said, their relationship has evolved," she remarked. "I'm sure there will be bumps in the road ahead, but only bumps. Once they are apprised of the ship's status and have had a shake-down day to catch up, they should be all right as long as they keep communicating. They have a long-term, platonic relationship. They have been through experiences that will be difficult to understand from our perspective. But they will bounce back."

"It's that bouncing part I'm worried about," Picard said. "How ready are they? Do you believe they will be prepared within 24 hours to resume their duties."

"They'll insist they'll be ready in 24 hours, but give them 48 to return full-time," Troi responded. "Neither officer has slept much in the past two days."

* * *

**Will Riker's personal log, 2364, 2100 hours**

_Amazing, to be filing a log entry without needing to write it out longhand. We arrived back on the Enterprise nearly six hours ago. _

_The Tobins returned with us and have settled into a guest cabin while awaiting orders for reassignment. Deanna has spent a great deal of time with them, and the girls are adjusting very well, all things considered. _

_The repairs done to the stealth shuttle were phenomenally successful, and although Miles O'Brien is rightfully proud of having assisted with those repairs, I can tell he is wistful that Gavin Machias did not make the trip with us. They became good friends. I recommended to Captain Picard that it should be O'Brien who travels to Earth to deliver some of Machias' personal effects and a message for his family. Gary and Tim Tobin agreed overwhelmingly to that plan, and I hope Picard will acquiesce to that request once the Tobins receive their assignment._

_I briefed Picard about the time travel, about how Tasha and I eked out a living and finally came up with a plan to contact the Enterprise crew. Picard lauded Louden Kendall and Lt. Com. Data for their resourcefulness in detecting our so-called 'message in a bottle', and told me that while he envied my non-voluntary opportunity to step away from duty temporarily, he understood that it wasn't a vacation. He's right. It wasn't._

_Now that I'm back, I feel out of sorts. I reach for doorknobs that aren't there, feel around doorframes for light switches that no longer exist. I hadn't anticipated how much I would miss the natural light that comes from being on a planet. While it's nice to be able to eat whatever I want whenever I want it, there was something comforting, almost gratifying, about shopping for it and preparing it myself. _

_I'm about to stop by Tasha's cabin to get my belongings out of the box we brought back with us. It wound up in her cabin while I was debriefing with Picard and Tasha was taking her turn with the sickbay once-over. Guess I'm next. I put it off sickbay as long as I could. Commander's privileges get me only so far._

* * *

**In Tasha Yar's cabin, 2230 hours**

_Shoes left in the middle of the floor, Springsteen on the player, swords on the wall . . . yep, definitely Tasha's cabin,_ Will thought as he walked into the cabin after she let him in.

She had music playing, something she'd brought back with her. And she'd jacked up the cabin temperature, also. KC lay splayed on the window seat, waking to the sound of another person entering the room, glaring at Will, then relaxing again to the stars rushing past the window.

The cat was acclimated, already. The people still were working on it.

"I knew you'd turn up the heat," Will muttered. "It feels like a damn sauna in here."

"Hi, Will," she said. "So, how far did you turn down the temperature in your cabin?"

"Oh, about 18 celsius during the day, 12.5 at night," he replied.

She shuddered. "Are you going to leave a Jell-O mold out on the table, too?"

He shook his head, smiling. "Hadn't thought about that," he remarked, then nodded toward a stack of CDs bearing his handwriting. "This my pile?"

"Yes, sir," she said. "There are several that aren't marked, so I'm pl—what's so funny?"

"You went from 'Hi, Will' and the Jell-O mold remark to 'Yes, Sir'," he replied. "Which is fine, either way."

"Protocol," she replied, but a smile broke through. "I've got to get back into the military mindset. Oh, remember these?" she held out the stack of photos they had, from the disposable cameras they occasionally invested in: Pictures of their apartment, of their workplaces, of their neighborhood.

"Hey. . ." Will sat beside her on the couch, and began leafing through the photos. He found one of the two of them that Will had snapped while they were riding a bus. He had held the camera away from them, and snapped the picture just as he leaned closer. They were heading to the St. Patrick's Day parade in downtown Kansas City, a drawn-out event where any family claiming Irish lineage walked down the streets, and then the true, drunkfest began. They hadn't stayed for long at the parade because they both had to work that night, and work was where the learned that in America, St. Patrick's Day wasn't about Irish heritage as much as it was about drinking as much as physically possible. "I've got to have a copy of this one," Will said.

"Which one?" she said, leaning close to see. "Oh, when we were heading to the St. Patrick's Day parade. I still can't believe you drank green beer."

"Cheap beer with green food coloring," he said. "It wasn't that bad . . . really, I'm surprised to hear that, coming from the queen of dumpster diving."

"Except for that fish or the pickles, dumpster diving wasn't that bad," she remarked. "I'm just glad we had something to eat."

"Ugh, the fish. . .yeah, that was an ugly night," he said. Barely two weeks into their stay on Earth, They had found a familiar bag of fast food inside a trash bin along Main Street. They'd eaten things out of that bin before, even out of bags similarly marked, without a problem. This meal involved the remnants of a fish sandwich, which they split, and were rewarded with night-long, dual spells of vomiting. "That was miserable."

"Zero G was miserable," she said, remembering when she and Louden Kendall floated around the stealth shuttle until Miles O'Brien could beam aboard and fix the artificial gravity.

"I'm sorry," he said, half-serious. "Actually, I was sorry to have missed that."

"I still can't believe I ate a pickle," she added. "I hate pickles."

"I know!" he laughed outright. "I would have paid to see you choking that down," he remarked, then saw something else in the box and reached inside to pull out a 43rd Place t-shirt that had Tasha's bar nickname printed across the back of it. "The Enforcer," he said. "You going to wear this during next week's ensign review?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so," she said.

"Oh, I know what I meant to tell you," Will said, leaning back against the couch, if only temporarily. "I'm so tired my memory is shot. Anyway, we've got the day tomorrow to catch-up, on both the past and the present. Captain's orders."

"Actually, that sounds great."

"I figured it would," he said, sitting back up, then forcing himself to his feet again. He left the shirt on the table in front of her. "So until tomorrow, I have an appointment in my own bed, in my comfortably, cool cabin, wearing n—."

"Stop!" Tasha held her hands up to her ears. "I don't want to know what you aren't going to wear. I don't need that visual."

"Nothing!" he said it anyway. He'd spent the last 22 months wearing shorts to bed in deference to his roommate, when he'd been used to sleeping buck naked. "Absolutely nothing!"

"Enjoy yourself," she called after him as he left her cabin.

"Good night," he added.

"Good night!" she laughed.

They were both so tired, they fell asleep almost immediately, without ruminating on much. It was only the next morning, when they awoke to empty cabins and weren't sharing a bathroom anymore, that they felt out-of-sorts with each other's absence.

* * *

**Aboard the USS **_**Enterprise**_** the next day, 1015 hours**

The next morning, the Tobins were notified by Starfleet that they had received a one-month assignment in San Francisco, and had been promised future assignments together on Earth, though they didn't yet know where. Enough time had passed that they needed re-evaluation of their abilities and interests. In the meantime, they would be sharing their experiences with Federation historians and focusing primarily on assimilating their daughters into a new culture. They would be given credit for chronological "time served" in Earth's past as part of their adjusted service.

It was the best possible news they could have received, and their new journey would begin in only a couple of days. The USS Helena would rendezvous with the _Enterprise_ and transfer the Tobins to Alpha Centauri, where they would then journey aboard the Federation's regular transit to Earth.

So far, Chaney and Piper were doing very well. Chaney had met several children her own age aboard the _Enterprise_, but wouldn't be starting school until she reached San Francisco. Lt. Kendall had been leery of integrating either of the girls into the much tougher curriculum aboard the _Enterprise_, and both the Tobin parents had agreed. Deanna had warned that after the excitement of their new surroundings had worn off, there would be a mourning period for both of them, when they realized the full scope of time travel for those that the family had left behind in Kansas City.

That finality might not have hit the girls, yet, but it hit Will Riker, Tasha Yar, Gary Tobin and Kim Tobin that afternoon, as they were perusing record checks and visuals to see what had happened to the places and people.

While Deanna took the girls on a short tour of the ship, Will, Tasha and the Tobins sat together in a conference room and looked people up. Deanna sensed that they all needed time and space, and absolutely didn't need an outsider telling them how they should be feeling. "The girls and I will be taking a quick tour," she said. "I'll stop by later, if that's all right."

_The first rule of counseling, don't force it on people who are handling things well,_ she thought. And just as quickly, she left with the girls, stopping first at Ten Forward for chocolate ice cream.

* * *

"Oh my God, Gary!" Tasha exclaimed. "That customer at 43rd Place who never tipped, who treated all of us like dirt? He got elected to the city council! What the hell was up with that? Now I'm glad we left."

_She's blowing sunshine up her own ass_, Will thought. She was putting up a great front, outwardly stoic or a sick sense of humor. But he knew she was inwardly upset. He'd read the same reports. They were at separate computers, but they'd linked into it at the same time, reading about the collective riots that had boiled over in many cities and communities. Thousands died, and the political and civil unrest eventually led to World War III by the middle of the 21st century.

Tasha learned that Shaun Conaghan did graduate from pharmacy school in 2012. He married a fellow graduate and they moved to Minnesota, but that was where all records vanished, as many had when computer records became corrupted. He was presumed to have perished in the nuclear strike on Minneapolis at the dawn of World War III.

Tucked away from the violence in the States, New Brunswick faired some better, although there still was discord in the larger cities and nuclear fallout did have a modest impact. But the Machias family did, indeed, survive.

"Gavin and Celice were married for 64 years!" Gary remarked, smiling pictures and an obituary on the computer screen. "Look at him. He didn't even lose his hair, lucky bastard. He went first, heart attack. Doesn't surprise me at all. The guy did have a big heart, no doubt about that."

* * *

Both Gary and Kim had opportunities to communicate, via subspace, with their families.

Gary's mother initially didn't answer the first subspace message that came through.

"What time is it there? She's got to be home," Gary remarked. "My dad's probably fishing somewhere, and my mom is probably outside in the garden. Neither of them carry communicators when they're outside. They're kind of old-fashioned."

So he called one of the neighbors, who ran across the road and, sure enough, found Emma Tobin in her garden and told her to go inside, that her son Gary was alive and on the sub.

Gary's mother left an entire flat of just-pulled radishes to go limp in the sunshine, and ran inside on the chance that it was true, that her son Gary was alive. Her hair was tousled from yard work and she hadn't even taken the time to clean garden dirt from beneath her fingernails because she was so happy to see and hear from her son, who'd long-been presumed dead by everyone else but her.

She initially was confused about the difference in time that had passed—two years for her, ten years for Gary, but was excited at learning that he'd gotten married again. She spoke briefly with Kim and very much looked forward to meeting her grandchildren.

"Your dad's fishing," she said, glancing over her shoulder as three neighbors came into the house in the background. They'd just heard the good news from the first neighbor, and arrived to share the Tobin's excitement. "I'm glad I hit the record button. Otherwise, he'll think I've finally flipped out when I tell him you're alive and that I've talked with you!"

During her own call 'home' moments later, Kim nearly fell out of her seat when she saw her own mother actually smiling back at her. Still, Meredith Chandler was more reserved in her reaction to news that her daughter was alive, married and the mother of two daughters. There were a few questions about the grandchildren, plus a telling remark about how glad she was that they would now be getting a 'real education'. Gary thought it was interesting that his mother-in-law's syrupy but terse, first statement to him wasn't "nice to meet you". Instead, she said, "What were your duties aboard the _Cheyenne_?"

_Holy shit,_ Tasha thought.

Kim wasn't surprised at all. Her eyes floated shut. Here we go, she thought. _If she starts in about my supposed lack of ambition despite the fact that I'm ALIVE and loving my life for the first time, I'm going to vomit right into the subspace camera. She needs to shove her elitist bullshit to the dark side of Luna . . . she'd better not take this out on Gary or the girls . . . I need to speak with Deanna . . ._

Kendall returned to his classroom, with a myriad of stories and dozens of things he brought back that they could touch: Real books, a plastic wrapper that had once held a loaf of bread, real newspapers, grocery ads, money, guidebooks, and photos. He had every item replicated and placed the originals in sealed containers for safekeeping, pending their arrival on Earth for possible placement in the Kansas City Museum of History, which had been built from burned-out shell of Union Station in the 22nd century.

While the Tobins were hesitant to introduce Chaney to the more rigorous academics just yet, they allowed her to visit the classroom during Lt. Kendall's presentation, and answer some questions about how 3rd graders spent their time in the 21st century. Chaney, an experienced playground game player, taught those ship-bound kids a thing or two about a term they hadn't heard, before: Recess.

* * *

**Tasha Yar's cabin, early the next day, 0045 hours**

Intercom chimes inwardly startled Tasha, who hadn't heard them for nearly two years. She had been lying awake for the past hour, trying in vain to shut off her mind when the chimes rang through just over her head. Within a second, she realized what they were and called out into the darkness, "This is Lt. Yar," she said, manually tapping the overhead light before it came on automatically. If this were an emergency, the light would have come on along with the chimes. Since she had a choice, she preferred it dark.

The caller didn't even bother to identify himself.

"Hope you weren't asleep."

"I wasn't," she replied, relieved to hear Will's voice. It wasn't coming from across the room, anymore. But it was present, and comforting.

"My mind's not shutting down like it did last night," he said. "You ready for tomorrow?"

"Oh, probably. I don't think we'll ease back into our duties by taking it easy."

"You're right, we won't," he said.

"My mind's not shutting down, either. Aren't the Tobins leaving tomorrow, too?"

"They are," Will replied. "The Helena is picking them up. They'll be stopping at Alpha Centauri, and then Earth, so the girls will get to see a Starbase."

"They're young enough, they'll be all right," she remarked. "If I can adjust at age 15 to a different language and different planet, they'll adjust just fine."

Will didn't reply.

"You all right?" she asked, cutting right to the chase. From his own cabin, Will smiled. _You can read me even from a different room. Scary. You aren't even Betazoid._

"Can I tell you something?" Will remarked.

"Anything," she said.

"I typed my alias, William Riggs, into the database and found out something."

"What was it?"

"Remember Stephanie?"

"Which one was Stephanie?"

"Sloppy Seconds," he replied, and her initial urge to laugh was stifled by the tone of his voice. She'd foisted that nickname on a woman Will had romanced, albeit briefly, in the 21st century. Now, she could sense something was wrong. Why else would he bring up a one-night-stand, especially that one, which resulted in the most vicious fight she and Will ever had?

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Sort of. I never met her."

"I found a birth certificate," Will said. "She had a daughter on February 2, 2009, and had William Riggs listed as the father."

Tasha's breath caught in her throat. It matches. The dates match. We had our fight in May. . .and this was the next February, she thought. Holy shit . . . Even if Tasha could have uttered anything at that point, she wouldn't have known what to say.

"I hadn't even known she was pregnant," he added. "I only saw her twice, but I guess that was all it took."

"God, Will," Tasha said.

"Immanuel was right. He kept saying it, that I'd—I don't know what else to say."

"I wish I knew what to say."

"I probably shouldn't have said anything," he remarked. "There's nothing I can do about it now, but I can't stop thinking about it."

"Have you looked her up?"

"Not yet," he said. "Maybe in a few days, after my head stops spinning around."

"You want me there?"

How'd you know I was about to ask? Will thought. "Would you?"

"Absolutely," she replied. "Call me. I'll always be there."

"I'll hold you to it," he said. "Can you do me another favor?"

"Name it."

"Don't tell Deanna about this," he said, though he had no idea how he'd go about it. He wanted her to hear this from him. "I'll tell her myself, tomorrow."

"I won't," Tasha promised.

"And I've got to say that I miss you. This cabin is too quiet. Everything is put away, there are no clothes in the middle of the floor. I even miss your cat."

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind visiting," she quipped.

"No, that's OK," he interjected.

"He could hack up a homecoming present for you."

"No, thanks," he was laughing by now, relaxed in spite of the re-adjustment ahead of both of them. This was why he had called her. He knew he could tell her what he'd discovered, and that she wouldn't tell him how he ought to feel. And he knew that she'd allow him to vent and then change the subject, rather than wallow in it.

Will had a feeling that late-night, intercom chats would be routine, for awhile, but also had a feeling that it was OK. They'd be all right, as long as their hailing frequencies remained open.

* * *

The holodeck program was upgraded, with more restrictions were placed Federation-wide on their uses. From now on, there would be multiple storage files for programs, and each one had to be time-stamped, to avoid another frustrating search.

The Abyat sector was placed under quarantine by Federation directive, pending a review of the anomaly that impacted two Starfleet ships. An investigation was launched, and depositions were taken from the four surviving Starfleet officers who had experienced the anomaly's pull.

In the day before the Tobins left the _Enterprise_, Gary spent quite a bit of time in Ten Forward, and the place worried him. It was as bland as military rations. It needed _Enterprise_-specific personality that welcomed everyone, gave everyone a place to relax. Right now, it was just a room with a great view. He mentioned to Captain Picard that the place needed a regular bartender, someone who could listen and be nonjudgmental, who could be funny, more music, a more relaxed atmosphere.

Picard liked the idea, and knew who he could contact — as soon as he could locate his friend, an El-Aurean named Guinan.

* * *

**Machias Rocks, overlooking the Bay of Fundy in New Brunswick, on Earth, May 12, 2364.**

Miles O'Brien was promoted to Transporter Chief shortly after the incident, and successfully lobbied for a posthumous commendation for Ensign Gavin Machias. He requested, and was granted, leave to deliver Machias' message to his father, who now lived in the city of Boston in North America.

Gavin Machias had lived to be 92 years old. He and his wife had four children, ten grandchildren, 18 great-grandchildren. Gavin and Celice lived in their home off the Bay of Fundy for the rest of their lives. The Machias family had left behind multiple journals, photographic records and paintings of the region and waters he loved so much.

Upon his arrival on Earth, O'Brien did meet up with Machias' father, who had long ago presumed his missing son to be dead, and gave him the CD with photos and the audio message meant for the future family he was leaving behind to live his dream.

"You can be very proud of him," O'Brien said. "He lived a good life, and he taught me that it isn't the time you live in, it's what you do with the time you're granted."

He didn't say anything about a note that Gavin Machias also had enclosed with his belongings, in an envelope with "For Miles O'Brien" written on it. Inside was a short note of gratitude from both Gavin and Celice, detailing a location where they'd hidden a box with three containers of Irish Whisky for O'Brien and the crew of the _Enterprise_.

"This one's on me," Gavin wrote. "It was great knowing you and I wish you well in your future."

So O'Brien sat on the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Fundy. He watched the boats coming and going, much as they had centuries ago only without the fishing tows and gear. Now, they were research or sporting vessels. But barnacles still clung to the rocky shoals, and the tide still rushed in as fast as it had several hundred years earlier, hastening the journey home for seafarers coming into the bay.

In the brine-laden wind and sunshine, O'Brien couldn't help but smile as he sat atop the weather-smoothed granite rock formations lining the Machias' generations-long family home. He drank several toasts to his long-gone friend, as the 9-meter tide surged in from the Atlantic Ocean. The sun was setting behind O'Brien, sinking behind North America.

But O'Brien smiled, suspecting his own journey was only beginning.

* * *

_**End of Future's Past. **_

_**Look for the sequel, entitled "Future's Present". Thanks for reading!**_


End file.
